Dreams Of Fire And Light
by SaintEpithet
Summary: Beric's deaths, from the first one to the last one. [TV canon compliant, missing scenes, gap filling, BrOTP Thoros & Beric, Hurt/Comfort]
1. Mummer's Ford

The battle had been over before it really began. Clegane's men had been laying in wait for them. A coward's tactic nobody had expected from the Mountain; a man so bold in his brutality, it seemed almost unreal. The detachment the crown had sent to bring him to justice had been cut in half, literally. Clegane's men had driven them apart into two groups; one fewer in numbers and none of them had survived. The rest had fought valiantly, but to no avail. When the dust had settled, only two dozen or so were still alive and most were so battered, the Mountain didn't even bother to pursue. He had been victorious and seemingly just wanted to get back to his bloody business; murdering men, women and children in the settlements of the Riverlands, slaughter them, rape them, leave their mangled bodies exposed as gruesome milestones on the way.

It was a morbid thought, but Clegane's eagerness to return to the slaughter of civilians had been a blessing. When all seemed lost, when Thoros saw his commander – and friend – dead in the dirt, after the lance had pierced his chest, the Mountain had been gone. He hadn't been there to witness the twist of fate; the Red God meddling with the affairs of men and allowing Thoros' mumbled prayer to channel his power. To bring Beric back from death.

Only a handful of their own men had witnessed it; most had been busy searching signs of life among the corpses of comrades and friends. But they all had heard Beric's cough when he opened his eyes, spitting blood and stale air. They all had seen him sit up, with Thoros' help, had seen him stare into the distance, through his surroundings, slowly realizing he was alive. Against all odds alive.

They didn't have the men to even consider retreating. Many were wounded and wouldn't have made it far, even if they hadn't been trapped behind enemy lines, with Tywin's Mad Dog and his army between them and their homes. Beric was in no condition to give any commands; his body was warm again, but his mind was still clouded by darkness and death. Everyone's eyes had been on him and Thoros, so Thoros took command. Led the remaining men to an abandoned farm, abandoned because Clegane had already passed through this region and left no survivors, not even the pigs or the yard dog.

Inside, they had found the mutilated corpses of the farmers; a couple and a young son. They had taken them outside, to bury them later with those who wouldn't make it through the night. The men had spread out across the house, found their own corners to suffer or tend to a suffering comrade. Beric had been their commander, but that was not the sole reason why the men agreed upon letting him have a private room. Nobody had said it out loud, but Thoros had seen it in their eyes. Some of the men were afraid after what they witnessed. Afraid of their fallen commander who was drawing breath again. And afraid of Thoros and the powers he had summoned. Some hadn't even known he was an actual priest until this day. They had heard him mumble a prayer here and there, had seen his fiery sword, ignited with parlour tricks and flammable oils. But they had believed Beric called him 'priest' as a monicker, the way the Clegane brothers were known as Mountain and Hound.

Thoros had brought Beric into a small chamber, perhaps the maid's room, or a farmhand's quarter, and put him down on the simple bed. He had lit a candle, as night was falling, and was about to return to the main room to talk to the men. Whether they were afraid of a foreign god's priest or not, he was the commander for the time being. But then he heard a coarse whisper and turned away from the door. He sat down on the edge of the bed, leaned over his commander to hear him repeat the words. "Don't go. I can't stay alone in the darkness." And Thoros stayed. He reached over, under Beric's neck, to lift his head just enough to rest it on his arm.

He saw the light of the candle reflect in Beric's eyes when he looked up, eyes filled with agony and confusion and questions he could not put in words yet. And there was something else when Thoros pulled him closer. Gratitude. "You won't be alone, in darkness or light," Thoros replied. Not a promise; a fact. The Red God had made the choice for them. No matter where the path would lead them, from now on, they would walk it together, to the very end. When they had left King's Landing, neither of them had believed in the Lord of Light. Now, there was no shadow of a doubt. There was only light, even if Beric couldn't see it yet. He would, in time, when his wound would have healed.

"Don't let it burn down," Beric whispered, not a request; a desperate plea, his eyes fixed on the candle next to the bed. Thoros nodded quietly and Beric sighed with relief when he closed his eyes. Thoros didn't have to make that promise. He knew the flame would always burn, with certainty he had never felt before. A candle, a hearth, a campfire in the woods, a forest fire, the entire world in flames; all in them, together, in this moment and all moments to come. He managed to find enough room on the bed to rest next to Beric, Beric's head on Thoros' shoulder, Thoros' arm over him and his fingers running through the golden hair, calming his friend's troubled thoughts enough to let him drift to sleep.

"Dream of fire, my lord," Thoros whispered, kissed Beric's forehead and then closed his eyes.

He hadn't addressed Beric by his title. Back in that night, neither of them had known that or had the mind to give it any thought. But over the years, unclouded by the shadows of death, Thoros had used 'my lord' as substitute for many things and Beric had understood them, like a secret language nobody but the two of them spoke. Thoros said it in a mocking tone to mean 'you fool'. He said it with a soft voice as a term of endearment. He said it in anger instead of 'you fucking idiot' and he said it under tears when Beric died; 'my everything'. That night, he had said it to put something into words that had no word for it. A word for a man who had given him back his faith in the Lord of Light. A man who had died and been reborn under his touch and hollow words. A man who would always be by his side, from this day to his last day.

It made no difference if Thoros spoke in anger or affection. When he called Beric 'my lord' in the years to follow, it brought back this memory. Beric could almost physically feel it. Like phantom pain, but it wasn't the aching wound in his chest. It was Thoros' hand running through his hair, the echo of a touch, like a kiss through a veil. Even in their most heated arguments, these two simple words had the power to remind Beric that Thoros would always be with him to keep the darkness away, would keep the fire burning.

That night, Beric dreamt of fire. Of flaming swords cutting away the night. Of dragons soaring through a burning sky. Of hearts ablaze, forging a divine bond that would burn hotter and brighter than dragonfire in the years to come.

When the sun came up in the morning, it felt colder and weaker than the day before. Thoros knew it was not because winter was coming. Here in the Riverlands, winter was still a distant memory; the forests were green, the farms around the settlements were ready for harvest and the winds nothing but a gentle breeze. When winter would approach, the leaves would turn brown and fall, the fields would no longer be golden and the winds would blow colder, and all of it was still months away. Thoros knew, the sun had not become colder. It was something in him that had changed. He had felt a greater fire and nothing else would ever feel as warm as before. A man who had lived by a lake all his life would never think of it as vast again once he had caught sight of the sea.

Beric had still been sleeping and Thoros covered him with a fur before he went to look after the men. Beric had seen the darkness. He had felt the cold. He didn't need to feel the sun's lost warmth when he woke up. The candle, now a shapeless blob of molten wax, was still burning; a tiny flame in the hot puddle bravely soldiering on. There was no need to light a new one, not with the daylight falling through the narrow window, but Thoros did it anyway. Not for warmth, not for light, but so R'hllor would watch over Beric while he was with their men.

There were men waiting outside; some still looking fearful, others leery. All demanded answers, and Thoros had none to give, not yet. He told them what he knew, as little as it was. That yes, their commander was alive, but would need more rest. That no, he hadn't had the power to bring people back from death until that day. That his prayers had been as hollow as they thought, that he had not truly believed in the Lord of Light for a very long time and that now, he did, with all his heart. When the men realized that Thoros could not give them the answers they wanted, they went quiet for a moment. Thoros asked them to stay quiet, then opened the door to Beric's room, let the soldiers see he was breathing. That was the only answer he had and it was enough to brush away their doubts for now.

They asked Thoros to speak to the rest of them; the wounded and those too afraid to approach. To speak to them as acting commander, tell them what to do, as many were young and had not seen many battles, if any at all. Thoros did. He sent out scouts to look for signs of a returning Mountain. He told those able to work to bury the dead; the family they had found and the three soldiers who had succumbed to their injuries in the night. He had the men with minor injuries gather the food they could find around the farm house. It was all he could do; all he felt he had a right to tell them. He was not their commander. It was not his place. He looked after Beric, changed his bandages, washed the blood away. He fed him the stew the men had made. He tried to answer the same questions the soldiers had asked before. He sat quietly on the edge of the bed when Beric drifted away to sleep. He lay next to him at night, kept the candle burning, told him the flame would never die. That was his place. By Beric's side, not anywhere else in the world.

On the third day, Beric had recovered enough to speak to his men when they came to his room. He was still weak, the wound still too fresh, but his mind was clear now. He had no more answers than Thoros to the questions about his resurrection, but he tried. He told the soldiers that the Lord of Light had brought him back, that they still had a mission and the Red God wanted them to keep fighting, that their cause was not lost. He never once mentioned the darkness he had seen. When asked directly, he claimed to remember only the pain when the lance pierced his chest and nothing else. The men accepted it. They did not notice that Beric reached for Thoros' sleeve when they asked, to request water or help to sit up. Thoros noticed. And he would never ask for the truth, ask what Beric had seen. He knew his lord would tell him, when he was strong enough to speak of it.

In the evening, the first three men approached Thoros and asked him how they could convert; abandon the Seven and pledge their souls to the Red God. Thoros had to dig deep to remember, to recall the words that had to be said. The men said them and it did not matter if the oaths were phrased the way they were in temples. Thoros knew the Red God would welcome the converts either way. He had taken him back, a drunk who never even meant the words he said. The Lord of Light would not turn the men who followed him away. And when the sun set on the fifth day, all but a handful of the soldiers had converted. Thoros did not ask the remaining men why they did not say the words. They didn't need to follow him or his foreign god. They would follow Beric, their commander, and he had been touched by fire.


	2. Valyrian Whispers

Thoros had not been a priest in a long time and he had never thought he would be one again. When he had been sent to convert the foreign king of another continent, nobody expected anything to come of it. The mission was not holy or important. It was an unspoken agreement that it would be best for everyone if Thoros left, would go seek his fortune in a far away land. Better for R'hllor's followers in Essos and better for the priest who wouldn't preach to them. Maybe not better for the king Thoros failed to convert; maybe a more devout preacher could have succeeded. But in the end, what difference did it make? Crowns and titles meant nothing to the Red God. It was just another soul to perish, one among thousands no priest could have saved. And life went on for Thoros, for the swordsman he had become and who nobody expected to preach.

That had changed, almost over night. When they moved on from the farmhouse, after wounds had been patched up as best as they could manage, the men began to ask about R'hllor. By the hearths of abandoned houses, by the campfires under an open sky, in the dim light of candles in caverns. When there was a flame, it ignited their desire to learn more about a god they had chosen to worship, knowing only that he favored their commander. Thoros told them all he could recall. Tales he had been told a thousand time in temples, tales meant to make him believe and that never did. But he did not need to convince or convert. It was Beric who had already done that, by nothing more than being alive. The soldiers listened, not to come to believe, but because they already did. They wanted to know their god, how to honor their oaths, how to serve his will.

R'hllor had been a stranger for so long, but here, far away from his homelands, the Red God revealed himself to his priest. Thoros couldn't tell when he began to see things he thought forgotten in the fire. The images just came alive in the flames, blurry at first, then clearer and stronger, as if these were not tales from old books, but memories of what he had seen with his own eyes. R'hllor did not spurn him for living in ignorance. R'hllor had been patient all those years, had waited for this moment, and when it finally came, his light shone brighter than Thoros ever thought possible.

The news of the Hand's death had spread across the lands like wildfire and reached Beric even behind enemy lines. Eddard Stark was the reason they were here, in the Riverlands, hunting Tywin Lannister's Mad Dog. Now the man who had sent them had been executed for treason, on the orders of Tywin's grandson. Beric knew what it meant. That he and every man under his command would be branded a traitor as well, if they kept trying to fulfill their oath. Not that they had the strength to take on the Mountain's army any time soon; even if the wounds of the battle had become just scars by now. But he still had every intention to continue the fight. He gathered the men, told them what many already knew; that the Hand was dead and that the war was only beginning. Beric meant to give them a choice, but the men had already made it months ago. They had seen the bloody trail the Mountain had left. They knew they would not be traitors for trying to end it. All they would be for it was human.

Nobody was more surprised than Beric, the very reason for their newfound faith, to see his soldiers this determined. But he didn't let on. He had taken back command as soon as he could stand and never gave them reason to doubt their choice. Didn't let them see that they were convincing him now, made him believe that the Red God would show him the way.

Only when night fell, Thoros could tell that his commander still wondered, still needed answers to questions the tales of old could not give. Beric would stay by the fire, every night, as long as he could keep his eyes open. His gaze kept seeking answers in the flames, and the flames would not speak to him. Thoros tried, shared the visions he saw, and still, they would not show Beric what he wanted to see. The reason R'hllor had brought him back.

When sleep would finally come, Beric was never far from Thoros, and he never had to ask for it to be this way. If the house they stayed in offered the comfort of beds, they would share one. If there were none, they'd share the floor and the fur that covered them. Those were the nights when Beric slept well, on beds and floors alike. Comfort held no meaning. It was Thoros' hand in his hair, the whispers of fire, the warmth of two fiery hearts beating as one. When Thoros was close, Beric could feel their flames intertwine, and they would burn so hot and so bright, the cold shadows from beyond could not touch him.

If they slept under the stars, where no walls could hide Beric's fright from the men, Thoros would sleep only an arm's length away. They would have quiet conversations, made it seem they stayed close to discuss plans for the day ahead, and sometimes they really did. The men saw their commander plot with his advisor, nothing more. They never saw the terror in Beric's eyes, never heard his voice tremble, never knew when Thoros held him back from getting up to sit by the fire again. When Beric finally found sleep, Thoros felt his hand on his arm, holding onto him and not letting go until the sun came up. An anchor at the shores of light to find the way back home from darkness.

In one such night, after the flames had been too quiet once more, Beric had asked to be taught Valyrian. "Maybe the Lord of Light will answer if I speak to him in his tongue," he had said. "Teach me to pray, the way you do." Thoros, half asleep, had nodded and mumbled that maybe, the Lord of Light just didn't want to have a conversation at this late hour. But he had taught Beric, at night, in the quiet moments when they lay together. Thoros didn't know if it would make a difference to the Red God. He just knew practising the prayers in a foreign tongue took Beric's mind off darker thoughts. And when the war they had expected came, he also knew they would need all the prayers they could get.

In the North, the Young Wolf had raised his bannermen; Lord Eddard's son rode to avenge his father. At Harrenhal, the roars of lions echoed, and Lord Tywin, the Mad Dog's master, called for blood. The smallfolk of the Riverlands was forgotten by both wolves and lions and it was no longer the Mountain alone the commoners had to fear. The Northern soldiers came for them as well, burned harvests and killed live stock to deprive the enemy of food, drive the lions out of their den. And Tywin Lannister answered in kind, sent out more pillaging parties, more men to hunt wolves and everyone suspected of aiding them.

There was no right side in this conflict and so Beric chose to not choose. They would not fight for lords or kings, he told the men. They'd fight for the people, defend those who could not defend themselves. Become a Brotherhood without Banners. And as the war went on, more brothers joined them in arms. Commoners who had nowhere else to go after their homes were burned down in the name of one king or another. Deserters from both sides who had grown tired of fighting the wars of other men for causes they did not believe in. Wolves and lions and even stags left behind by King Robert, soldiers who refused to choose between the late king's warring brothers; the Brotherhood welcomed them all. Beric asked only one thing of them. To burn their banners, give their former loyalties to the flames and never speak of their past again.

As grim as the Riverlands had become, for a while it felt like the Brotherhood could make a difference here. The deserters who joined them burned their banners, but they brought their swords and armor; horses sometimes or stolen supplies. And the commoners knew their lands better than wolves or lions; the hidden passages through forests and across rivers, where to find food and shelter for the night. One man, sole survivor of a small settlement the Northern army had destroyed, had known a place to make their home. The Hollow Hill, hidden in the heart of the Riverlands, a network of caverns and tunnels that offered room for the Brotherhood's growing numbers.

When they had first set foot into the cave, Thoros thought Beric would never find sleep here. The darkness was sprawling out of tunnels and small caverns, and the deeper they went in, the colder the rooms were. He was surprised to hear Beric declare this place the Brotherhood's home without hesitation, but once evening came, he understood. The shelter of the cave would allow them to let the fire burn high and bright, all night and day, without worry about it being seen by enemy soldiers from the distance. They'd sleep in these small caverns now, never under the sky again. Within these walls, Beric would no longer have to wear the mask of fearlessness when darkness fell. It would be him and Thoros and their Lord, away from men who should not see him weak, who had to keep believing his faith was as strong as theirs.

It was not the night they had to fear anymore. Bannerless men between two fronts of a war had many enemies and it was not always easy to tell them apart from potential friends and allies. Robb Stark was claiming victories and the lions at Harrenhal began looking for reasons. Unwilling to take blame themselves, they continued to strike at anyone they suspected to help their enemy. They took note of the outlaws that had once been ordered to bring the Mountain to justice, tried to lure them out with more brutal strikes against the smallfolk, tortured prisoners for information. And they found a weakness. The Brotherhood's willingness to accept deserters into their ranks.

Thoros' heart stopped when he heard the voices outside the cave, the voices of the men who had gone with Beric to scout out a settlement. They were yelling his name, panicked and confused and angry at once. There were other words; a trap, they said, it was a trap, they were not deserters, but loyal lions. But Thoros didn't need to listen. He knew. He had felt it even before they had reached the Hollow Hill and just not understood the sudden pain and despair that overcame him. He had failed his god once again. He had not used his gift, his second chance. He had let R'hllor's champion die. Again.

He slowly stood up from his place by the fire, unwilling to look up when the men dragged Beric's lifeless body inside. He only raised his head when he realized why they were calling him, why they sounded angry. In their eyes, he had not failed at all. It was the Lannisters who had dared to defy the Red God's will. And now they wanted, no, expected Thoros to give them another miracle to witness. To bring Beric back again, to prove the Lannisters wrong and show them they had no power over those the Red God favored. Thoros wished nothing more than to have their faith when they put the body down in front of him. He did not, but he had to try. And so he went down on his knees, leaned over Beric and tried.

The men standing in the cave probably thought it was prayers Thoros whispered in Valyrian. It was not. It was asking his god why he had let this happen, cursing that they hadn't seen the trap, begging the Red God for forgiveness, making promises to redeem himself to both R'hllor and Beric, offering bargains; however many lives the Lord demanded in exchange for his friend's, and it was forgetting and remembering how to pray in the same breath. And the Lord of Light answered what hadn't even been a real prayer. Beric opened his eyes and Thoros froze in disbelief and relief.

When Thoros dared to take his eyes off Beric, certain enough that what he saw and felt was real, he didn't find any surprise in the faces of the men around them. They nodded quietly and went to get bandages, as if they had expected no other outcome.

"You brought me back again?" he heard Beric whisper. Thoros shook his head, now looking back down. "The Lord of Light did," he whispered, his voice breaking and still carrying doubt. He felt Beric move his hands and Thoros' glance followed them when he pulled up the bloodsoaked tunic to reveal a ghastly wound, a deep cut across his stomach. "Can I... bleed out?" Beric quietly asked, trying to lift his head and see the injury. It was probably the shock, but in that moment, he sounded genuinely curious. Thoros quickly reached for his shoulders to keep him still. "I think you already did," he gave back.

The men returned from the supply chamber with bandages and water, helped Thoros stitch the cut and dress the wound, then they carried Beric to his sleeping place in a cavern down the tunnel. They didn't say a word until they returned to the main room. Here, the men told Thoros that they had their orders and to not worry about the lions in the woods. And they picked up the swords they had dropped by the entrance and went back outside, as if they had just brought back supplies and not their dead leader.

For a moment, it was just Thoros and the fire in the cave. He couldn't move, not yet. He just sat there, still on his knees, staring down to where Beric had been; the blood beginning to dry on the floor. Even the flames behind him were calm; no crackling came from them and when Thoros turned around, there were also no visions. No turmoil, no blame for the priest who thought he had failed his god and his champion, nothing. Just tranquil flames slowly flickering. The Red God had no more to say about this than the men who had left to go back to their lion hunt.

Then Thoros found himself sitting in their cavern, Beric's head in his lap, a hand running through the golden hair again to brush the fear away. Beric was weak from the blood loss and only spoke in whispers, but his mind was clearer this time. "We should have seen this coming," he said and Thoros nodded. They should have. It was Tywin who wanted their heads; the battle hardened lion, not the wolf pup from the North. Underestimating a boy who had never seen the war before would have been forgivable. But the Young Wolf cared for nothing but his vengeance. It was the Old Lion who tortured and killed just to find the Brotherhood.

"We'll be more careful from now on," Thoros replied. "I cannot lose you again." Beric's eyes had been half closed, but now he opened them, looked up and smiled.

"You won't," he said. "The Red God won't let you."

Thoros tried to return the smile. "I thought so until they brought you in." He reached for the fur with his free hand to pull it closer over Beric. "And I was never more afraid in my life than in that moment. There's nothing that would terrify me more."

Beric's smile faded and his glance drifted away, from Thoros to the candle. "You have not seen the darkness," he said, haunted echoes in his voice.

Thoros couldn't bear the sound. How could he let this happen? How could the Lord of Light let it happen? How could he forgive either of them for allowing the shadows to touch Beric again? He turned his head away, wouldn't let Beric see his eyes fill with tears, with guilt and regret and a silent plea to R'hllor to turn back time, to take back this death. Then he felt Beric's hand on his, cold against warmth, and pull it over his chest. "Don't torture yourself," he heard Beric say. "It wasn't your fault." Thoros didn't answer. He just sat there, feeling Beric's heart beat under his hand, the warmth of life returning to his skin. Every beat of his heart, every breath he took burned away more of the guilt, and finally, Thoros could look at him again. Could forgive himself and his god.

That night, Thoros dreamt of light. Of light so brilliant and bright, no shadow could fall, from here to the distant lands of Asshai. Of light so dazzling and radiant, it paled a thousand suns. Of light so warm and gentle, the cold darkness itself cowered away from its glory.


	3. Where There Is Light

The stomach wound healed faster than the hole in his heart, but not fast enough for Beric's taste. Even though he could barely stand up by himself, he refused to stay in the cavern he shared with Thoros. As soon as his body allowed it, he found support on cavern walls and crates, made his way to the main room to sit with the men he commanded. He gave orders like before. He joked with them like before. He listened to Thoros' tales with them like before. He ate and drank with them like before. And yet nothing was like it had been before anymore.

Beric had just stopped making his closeness to Thoros a secret, and no word of it was said between them. All there had been was a glance before Beric first put his head on Thoros' shoulder, when several of their men sat with them by the fire. Thoros' eyes asked "are you sure" and Beric's eyes said "aye" with confidence, no more. And from then on, Beric would sometimes lean against him while listening to reports of wolves and lions, as if he always had. Would put Thoros' arm around his shoulder when they talked, with a reproachful glance, as if Thoros was supposed to do it on his own, until he did. He held war council slouched against Thoros' back; in a lazy embrace, chin on his shoulder, no bravado, just habit. There was no pretense of coincidence or accident in his actions, nothing to discreetly overlook or misinterpret, Beric made sure of that.

Of course, the men noticed the open display of affection, the softer tones in which their commanders spoke to each other. Those who had been with the Brotherhood from the start paid no attention, not that Thoros could see. Life on the run offered only so much discretion. These men had come to know the gentleness between their leader and his priest and knew it was nothing like the frivolities some nobles sought in brothels. The loss of secrecy only confirmed their thoughts; this was a knot tied by their god and it did not need to be concealed from sight.

More recent recruits, those who had joined during the war, were more skeptical at first. One evening, Thoros overheard a few men talk outside the cave while on their watch. They spoke with Northern accents, stray wolves leery of their new commander. Had he renounced his lands and titles for his foreign lover, they asked. Was it Renly who had branded him an outlaw, to disperse rumors threatening his own claim to the throne? The voice that answered, with a Stormlands accent, told them no. Said their commander had been to dark places, beyond life, and his priest's touch could break the frost that lingered on his soul. A second voice, a Riverlander from the sound, claimed Thoros' presence shrouded Beric in immortality, and filled the hole the lance left in his heart with fire and light whenever they were close.

It was not the only conversation of this kind. Such whispers came from many corners, in many accents, and Thoros began to understand why Beric broke the secrecy. He was becoming something he did not want to be in the eyes of their brothers: a holy man without the power to make them abandon false beliefs. Their praise and awe belonged to the Red God, not him nor his priest. The thought that they were godlike, immortal, was a breeze he did not wish to see ignited. He tried to solve an oxymoron; compel true believers to stop believing, on the authority of their faith in him. He needed to become human to them, yet he could not do so without bringing the half truths and legends into the light. Their awe had to give way to curiosity. Beric was pushing the limits of their blind faith to a point where they had to question him, as openly as he was about his bond with Thoros.

The night when he succeeded had followed a good day. The Brotherhood had driven wolves back from a settlement, then waylaid the pursuing lions. The men had returned to the Hollow Hill with more horses, as well as swords and bows fresh from the armory of Harrenhal. The mood was good around the fire, and wine taken from Lannisters clouded judgement and loosened tongues.

A brazen young farmboy was the one who spoke up, amidst tales of battle and victory and one too many swigs. "Were you not betrothed to some lady, Lord Beric?" he asked, laughing when Beric leaned back to rest his head in Thoros' lap. "How come you wed a foreign priest instead?" Thoros could see the sparkle in Beric's eyes; the reflection of fire in ice finally breaking.

"Aye, I was," Beric confirmed with a smirk on his lips. "The priest turned out to be the better kisser and there was much less competition for his hand to boot." He told a bard's tale of a long escape, of starcrossed lovers from two distant lands, defying kings and gods to run away together, and hide out in a cave below the Riverlands; each claim more grandiose and unbelievable, until he knew the soldiers would see jokes instead of myths. And with one night of laughter, he became human to his men again, as he should be before his god, as he needed to be for himself, to truly feel alive again.

But there was a shadow, one the fire had hidden during the celebration and that only fell when Beric dragged Thoros back to to their cavern, away from the wine. There, in the dim light of candles, they sat down to share the last bottle, and Beric said something that would linger in Thoros' clouded mind. "Was I the lord of Blackhaven when we met? Or heir to that title?" he asked. "I could not remember." At first Thoros shrugged, gave only "both, in some way" as slurred reply, his mind still in a joking mood. But Beric was not satisfied. "That I know," he said. "I can't recall if I already held the title or if it was yet to pass to me."

Thoros gave him the flask and thought for a moment. "Why would I call you lord if you were not the lord?" he then replied, still not sure what Beric was trying to tell him. He only began to understand when Beric remained briefly quiet, with a thoughtful expression, and then doubt echoed in his voice.

"You might have been joking," he said and emptied the wine. "You often do." Thoros shook his head and pulled Beric closer, seeing this was serious to him.

"But I wasn't," he answered quietly. "It was your title when I met you, my lord." And when he said it, just once, neither Thoros nor Beric really knew what 'my lord' stood for this time.

With diminished wine supplies and sharper minds, they paid more attention to such details from that night on. And they began to realize that the Red God's gift came at a price. When Beric spoke of life before the war, he often paused to think, to recall names or faces or events, and found them blurry in the twilight. His father's stablemaster's name, the joke his cousin told before her wedding, his squire's favorite stew that no tavern ever seemed to serve. Small things, surely, but memories no less.

And so their nightly conversations changed. For months, it had been Thoros talking, teaching prayers and Valyrian words, while Beric listened and repeated phrases in between. Now, the roles reversed and Beric was the teacher. Told Thoros of a life he left behind before the stories faded from his memory. Gave him pieces of his soul, to keep them safe, should darkness fall again.

But before darkness, there was light.

Beric had long recovered and only a long scar across his stomach reminded of his second death. The Riverlands had been quiet in these last weeks; both wolves and lions licked their wounds, hid in encampments and behind their castle walls. The Brotherhood had fixed more roofs and helped more harvests than they had seen fights recently. It was a calming thought the smallfolk had some time to breathe, though everyone knew well enough it would not stay that way for long. Still, Beric had been aching for battles, to pay back the Lannisters for his demise. Almost daily, he asked Thoros to look at the flames again, see if the Lord of Light had any insights regarding enemy movements, and Thoros had to remind him that R'hllor was not their ghostly scout. Whenever Thoros returned to the Hollow Hill after scouting trips, he found Beric sitting by the fire, conversing with it in Valyrian, impatiently sharpening daggers and swords.

It had been yet another uneventful day and Thoros' party had not found much of note. Light rain fell when they returned to the cave, maybe the last rain of summer before fall would hold court. He expected to see Beric by the fire as usual, trying to bargain with the Red God for just one fight, and only abandoning the attempt when Thoros sat next to him to report.

He heard Beric's voice before he could see him; from outside the cave, while putting down the day's meager loot. On other days, Thoros absently admired his progress; Beric had almost lost his accent by now and except for a few slips of his tongue, he sounded as close to fluent as a Westerosi would get in Valyrian. But on this day, Thoros stopped short, noticing something had changed in the tone of Beric's voice. The frustration and impatience had made way for satisfaction, almost glee. It did not sound like pleading or bargaining; Beric seemed to be plotting with the Red God and Thoros was not sure if he liked this change. Something had happened while he was gone and paired with Beric's eagerness for battle, it could mean bad news.

Thoros hurried to get inside, out of the rain and into the warmth of the fire. And he did not find Beric by it, as expected. His commander had heard the steps outside, despite his conversation with the flames, and he was awaiting the scouts, standing in the middle of the room. Thoros had to do a double take. Beric held the obvious reason for his elated mood in his hand. A flaming sword. And Thoros knew immediately it was not one of his parlour tricks. He had used up the last flammable oils months ago and his own sword had remained cold ever since.

When they sat down, Thoros' head on Beric's shoulder for once, and Beric told him what had happened, Thoros could not help but chuckle. The ways of his god were not only mysterious, but also amusing at times. Beric's conversation with the fire had started out as so often; him talking and sharpening swords to keep his hands busy, while the Red God ignored him. Thanks to Beric's impatient efforts, the Brotherhood surely had the keenest blades all across Westeros by now, Thoros thought, rivaled only by Valyrian swords. In his preoccupation with R'hllor, Beric had paid no attention to the sword; reckless enough while handling sharp steel, until it ignited under his scrutinizing touch. Maybe, Thoros remarked, R'hllor had thought just that and feared his champion would be his own downfall, would he not interfere. His sarcasm could not diminish Beric's good mood and excitement and Thoros didn't mean to. Beric had waited for so long to be heard, it was about damn time the Lord of Light acknowledged it and rewarded his patience.

But light rarely fell without a shadow; not for outlaws in the war torn Riverlands.

Where there was light, darkness followed closely in its tracks. Thoros knew it had caught up with them once more when he felt a sharp pain while tending the fire one evening. At first, just a brief sting; maybe an old ache from a fight, he thought. But the pain did not lessen as he sat down, when the wave of dread and despair washed over him like a cold ocean. He stayed by the fire, quiet, his prayers just whispers against the crackling of the wood. Then he heard the thunder of hooves coming closer; fewer horses returning than had left hours before. Slowly, Thoros stood up and turned around, awaiting the inevitable reveal.

When the riders arrived and stopped outside the cave, it was not what Thoros had expected to see. He had thought to see Beric's body slouched over the saddle, lifeless and cold in the rain. But it was worse than that.

Beric was not dead.

He was dying.

Arrows stuck in his back, seven from shoulder to shoulder and down to the bladebones; two stuck in the chainmail, four more went through it, but not far. The last one sat deep.

The men jumped off their horses, to help Beric down and bring him to Thoros. This time they did not approach him as a wonder healer. There was only sadness in their eyes. Beric's refusal to hide his bond with Thoros had made both of them human again and the men now understood that this was not one holy man seeing another one die. They knew it was a friend whose heart was breaking, a mortal with no guarantees from his god that a prayer would fix it.

By the fire, under the eyes of R'hllor, they removed Beric's armor, as best as they could. Removed the arrows, even the last one, and all of the men present knew it had pierced Beric too deep. Blood ran from his mouth, his breath went flat in collapsing lungs. He'd be dead before the night would be over, and there was nothing they could do about it but hope and pray.

They managed to stop the bleeding before taking Beric, barely breathing, to the sleeping place back in his cavern and left Thoros alone with him. Once more, it was just them and their god in the small candle lit room. Beric could barely speak. He tried, but Thoros told him not to. Covered him with furs and clothes, kept him as warm and as comfortable as he could. Then he lay down next to him, his head leaned back against the wall; pulled Beric over, to have his head rest on his chest. He had not thought there'd be a harder thing than seeing Beric dead, but he now knew it wasn't true. Every breath Beric took, desperate and flat, let Thoros feel his life fade away and that hurt deeper than all other pain he ever knew.

He spoke softly to Beric, about the life he once had before war ravaged the lands. Of the day when he rode his first horse in the courtyard of Blackhaven, with the stablemaster called Wyllam holding the reins. The joke his cousin had told before giving her hand to her husband, with the punchline Thoros never really understood. How his squire described that glorious stew and had tried to find another like it in taverns and inns wherever they stopped, and how Beric had always doubted that stew was more than a myth.

And Thoros' fingers only stopped running through Beric's hair to feel for his pulse, waiting for the moment when there would be none. If R'hllor had the kindness and mercy to give them just one more chance, he'd make Beric's glimpse of the darkness as short as he could. And if this was their last night, he would at least feel it, would know when his god abandoned him; the exact point beyond which only shadows would comfort him. He didn't know if Beric could still hear him when he whispered: "I will wait at the shores. I will not let you drift far from light, not this time, my lord."

Then the last breath faded on Beric's lips; Thoros could see the fire die in his eyes and the blue of a summer sky turn gray as ice. "Please, Lord of Light, just one more time..." he whispered to the candle. Then he leaned down, breathed fire into collapsed lungs, filled them with the warmth of life. When he felt the kiss of life returned in kind, felt Beric's hand reach for his, the tears no longer fell with fright. Thoros cradled his friend, his everything, embraced him like fire, the flames engulfing him all through the night.

That night, Beric dreamt of fire. Of scorching legions shattering the darkness with their fiery blades. Of soaring flames emerging from a million hearts to devour the night and all its terrors. Of fires so bright and divine, the shadows could not reach for him ever again.

When morning came, it seemed like it had been a night like any other. Beric's body had never even gone cold. His light had just flickered, briefly, like a candle in a summer breeze.

The storm was yet to come.


	4. Last Dawn

They rode fast like lightning and with the fury of thunder; the fiery autumn leaves a flurry of red and brown to their left and their right. Thoros shook the reins; pushing the exhausted horse to go faster. Beric, in front of him, slumped against his shoulder, axe wielding pursuers somewhere behind. It hadn't been Thoros' plan when he grabbed Beric's arm to pull him up to his horse, because Thoros hadn't had any plans. Now it felt like a blessing, not hinderance, that Beric was where he was. His arm was still hanging on Thoros' shoulder, somehow, but too weak to cling on. If it hadn't been for Thoros' arm around his waist, Beric would surely have fallen out of the saddle by now.

Clegane had left the walls of Harrenhal, just like that, leaving nothing but death and despair to haunt the blackened ruins. It would have been good, it could have been good, it could have meant an end to fights and deceptions, a moment to breathe between battles and blood. But no. The Young Wolf was still weeks away, and the Riverlands were teeming with every last bandit and tribesman daring to come out from the hole he was hiding in. Was there even anything left to pillage? The hill tribes seemed to think so, and without the strong presence of lions, they grew ever more ferocious when they left their mountains and forests for raids.

This was not an enemy the Brotherhood had expected to fight. The Mountain's sudden departure from Harrenhal had come without warning, making the weeks seem quiet at first, as they had been between battles before. Robb Stark had hurt the Lannisters deeply; rumors said the Northern armies had captured the Kingslayer, and it seemed unlikely the enemy would abandon a stronghold after the loss of their general. News from the capital were sparse and the Brotherhood had nothing but hearsay to go by; contradicting tales colored by travelers in taverns with every allegiance under the sun.

The hill tribes didn't give a damn about any of this. They came for the late harvests, the scraggy live stock left on the pastures, the little peace the smallfolk still had after wolves and lions finished their feasts.

Thoros didn't know who gave pursuit, if it was Burned Men or Stone Crows, Moon Brothers or Redsmiths, and it didn't matter who they were. What mattered was Beric, the wound in his side and time running short. The axe had cut deep and the blood was seeping through his tunic, soaking Thoros' sleeve and dripping down on the saddle. Horses, that was the one thing the hill tribes had not stolen, because no farmer or breeder had had any left on his yard.

Right after the tribesmen had attacked, with war cries and reckless abandon, it had felt like a blessing to at least have the means for a quick retreat. But right now, with Beric barely concious in front of him, Thoros didn't feel blessed. The escape had been hasty and with no regard for direction; being outnumbered twenty to one had that effect. Now he found himself on a path that looked like all others, without a hint where the Hollow Hill might be, realizing no matter which route he took, it would take too long.

Thoros pulled the reins, holding them with one hand, to tell the horse to stand still on a crossing, Beric heavy in his other arm. He caught his breath, then looked around, to listen to the forest's song, just to make sure he had shaken off the tribesmen for now. Not even a bird sang, just a mild wind rustled the leaves.

"Beric?" Thoros slightly shook him, with a vague hope he could tell him what direction to take even in his state. Beric didn't react. His head was hanging to his shoulder, his eyes were closed, the blood had stopped flowing from his side. And Thoros knew there was no answer but this being the loneliest place a man could find on Earth. But before the harsh reality could begin to sink in, the forest's eerie silence was broken. The cries of Burned Men or Stone Crows, Moon Brothers or Redsmiths carried over from the near distance and Thoros' head spun around. The mob wasn't in sight yet, but soon, they would be. He had to go, whichever direction, just away.

But not like this.

He looked back down to Beric, lifeless and pale. Why would the Lord of Light have answered three times, just to let it end like this, he thought. Not the most mysterious of all ways could have ended right here. He took a deep breath, whispered a rushed prayer and pulled the dead body closer, then kissed him with life. For the first time, it carried a hint of confidence and trust in R'hllor and it was not misplaced. The moment their lips parted, Beric began coughing, splattered both Thoros' and his face with blood, and half opened his eyes. Thoros had no time to think; ten, maybe more tribesmen were visible now, and he had no more reason to wait. He tightened his grip on the reins and on Beric, then gave spurs, with no thought to direction.

Maybe it had been the Lord's guidance, maybe just luck. With either or both, Thoros had reached the Hollow Hill, a few hours ago. Not all of the men he had left with had returned, and some never would. Those that got away from the hill tribes now found their way home, one by one, or in pairs. Some were sitting around the fire, exhausted and bandaged and without much to say, and when Thoros came back from his cavern, dried blood in his beard, but unharmed, they barely looked up. "Beric?" one of them asked, monotone; the shock of the afternoon still in his voice.

"Aye," Thoros answered, then scuffled steps from behind him made the men lift their heads, after all.

Beric was still shaky on his legs, but he could stand. Wrapped tightly in Thoros' crimson cloak, he slowly made his way to the fire; shivering like a leaf, as he always did when he returned from beyond. He waited for his priest to follow and sit on one of the logs, then Beric slumped down between Thoros' legs, resting arms and head on his thigh. Thoros gently put his hand on Beric's head and reached for the wine with the other. It needed no words anymore. The men, as dark as the fading day had been, knew all they needed to know to keep up their hope. Lances of Mountains, arrows of wolves, daggers of lions, axes of tribesmen; it meant nothing at all. The Red God would not have it so. The Red God would have his champion here, among his brothers, among the living, and his priest's lips wet with wine.

The Young Wolf came, took residence in Harrenhal, and with more wolves out in the forests, the tribes crawled back into their hidden holes. The calm after the storm was welcome, but for the Riverlands, it came too late. While Beric recovered, the lands did not. Fields had been burned down, trees cut and cattle slain, not slaughtered for food. Many settlements had been abandoned, the ruins of houses now claimed only by ghosts. The more Beric heard of the devastation, the more the idea of failure clouded his mind. In the main room by the fire, the men saw him grow stronger, the more his wound turned into yet another scar. But when he was alone with Thoros, the doubts came out to cast a shadow Thoros' words could not chase away. The Lord of Light had brought him back another time, and Thoros would not let it be for doubt nor vain endeavours. What Beric needed was a ray of light. So Thoros rode one morning, with one man and three horses, to find his friend a pocket sized sun.

"Where are we going?" his companion, an archer called Anguy, asked, not recognizing their way.

"To the Crossroads Inn," Thoros gave back, padding the empty saddlebag of his horse. "We'll need more wine and ale for tonight."

Anguy pulled his horse closer to Thoros', the reins of the third in his hand. "And why would that be?" He chuckled. "Did you already deplete all our supplies?"

Thoros answered with a smirk and a shake of his head. "It's Beric's name day," he claimed, but earned only laughter.

"It is not," Anguy gave back, with more confidence than Thoros had thought. "I've known Lord Beric since I was a boy. His name day is only a few weeks after mine."

Thoros shrugged and took a swig from his flask. "Well, it's mine then," he said and once more, Anguy laughed.

"Didn't you say it's not custom in Myr to celebrate such a thing? I recall you told me you never knew yours when the subject came up."

Now Thoros looked over, with an indifferent smile. "Then it's the anniversary of our betrothal," he said with a shrug. "Since when do tired soldiers need a reason to drink?"

They returned in the afternoon, with food, wine and ale, and by the time they unloaded the horses outside the cavern, the story had changed yet again. When the men asked what owed them such spoils, some truth had slipped in. "Tonight will be the year's last victory of light," Thoros explained. "The last night to be shorter than the following day." It was as true as it was coincidence he knew that, and it was a reason as good as any to drink. "So we'll honor the light, with our moods bright as the summer, and with bellies full of its harvest." It sounded true enough, after all.

For long months, Thoros had told these men the tales of R'hllor; the seeds of faith finally falling on fertile ground for the first time in his life. Yet this was the night that made Thoros feel as a priest more than any other, when he fed the men roast and wine and not words. Spirits shone bright in the cave inside the Hollow Hill, song and laughter filled the air. Yet Beric stayed apart from the light. He leaned against the wall by the entrance, ale in his hand, not joining his men and just watching, with a thoughtful expression instead of the smile Thoros sought.

"It will not last," he said, when Thoros came to him, like an admirer sneaking away from the dance to have a moment with his secret love. It was melancholy that echoed; a deep, mild sadness and Thoros wanted it gone, just gone.

"Tonight, it does," he said and took the ale from Beric's hand to drink it. He got no reaction, none at all, and put his wine flask in the empty hand. Beric gave it a brief look, but did not drink. His eyes still lingered on the fire, roaring high among his merry men, seeking answers, guidance, hope. Thoros leaned his arm against the wall and with his free hand, reached for Beric's chin. "Look at me," he demanded. "Tonight, the Red God wants us to be free of troubles. Don't refuse him." Beric's glance met his only when Thoros gently forced his head to turn.

"The Red God wants us drunk?" There was a doubtful chuckle in his voice and Thoros nodded.

"He does," he declared and the wine added a more grandiose claim. "Come, I'll show you." He nodded to the fire. "You'll see the Lord approves of this." Beric skeptically raised his eyebrows, but he followed, too curious to not give it a try.

They sat down by the fire, among their men, their laughter and songs. And the Red God answered, mysterious as always, to confirm Thoros' claim. Showed Beric visions, clearer than ever before, unguided by Thoros, who could see them as well. There were green meadows and forests, rays of light breaking through the crowns of tall trees. There was the first day of spring, the colors of flowers breaking the last white of snow. There were scents of the summer rain and a warm day by the shore, the walls of Blackhaven glistening in sunlight; and there were Beric and Thoros, side by side on a hilltop, against a glorious dawn.

When Beric finally raised the flask to his lips, the visions faded; slowly and gently until they were nothing but flames. After a long swig, he let the flask sink and looked back to Thoros, with disbelief and the smile that he owed. "Never thought the Lord would be in on your joke," he said and Thoros had trouble to keep a straight face.

The hour was late when the drunk men retreated, as merry as their god had them be. Beric got up from the log he had sat on, leaving Thoros the last bottle of ale when he went to their cavern. Thoros finished the drink and was about to follow, but when he reached the tunnel, Beric returned. "You are not tired?" Thoros asked, then he noticed the furs and their cloaks over Beric's arm.

"I am," Beric gave back, though he sounded nothing like it with surprising ease in his voice. "But we'll sleep outside tonight, on top of the hill." Now it was Thoros' turn to raise his eyebrows.

"We do?" he asked, glancing out to the night. Beric's answer was a quick nod, then he went to the entrance of the large cave.

"The Lord of Light wills it so," he explained as he waited there. "You've seen it, you and I and the dawn."

Thoros nodded, still not convinced, but he followed. Maybe this dawn would be the comfort the Lord knew Beric sought.

And then they sat on top of their hill, covered in cloaks and furs to stay warm in the chill of the night, under the sparkles of a million brilliant stars. "We can make a fire," Thoros offered, pulling Beric closer in his arm, but Beric shook his head.

"Not tonight," he said and sounded certain. "Tonight, we shine bright. No shadow will dare to come close." He pushed Thoros down to lie beside him, no hint of a doubt, no fear of the dark.

"We spoke of my past life a lot," Beric thoughtfully said, his head on Thoros' shoulder, his gaze lost in the endless sky. "Of my childhood, my home, my title. And yet it seems so far removed from the life I do remember clearly." Thoros didn't answer, he just nodded. He was glad to see Beric's mood had shifted, farther into the light than he thought it could earlier that day. "There's one memory missing from the life I have now though," Beric continued, with a hint of regret in his voice.

"What memory is that?" Thoros asked, his eyes still filled with stars like Beric's.

"The day we met," came a quiet answer. Now Thoros turned to look at Beric.

"That won't stay lost," he said. "I do remember and I won't let you forget."

He felt Beric nod on his shoulder. "Tell me."

Thoros took a deep breath of cool night air and pulled Beric closer. "It was after I returned to the Stormlands from the Battle of Pyke," he began and immediately, Beric skeptically furrowed his brow.

"I was twelve when that battle was fought," he interjected. "That much, I remember."

Thoros chuckled and leaned closer to kiss Beric's head. "It is a long way, if you stop at each tavern," he said, jokingly serious and Beric smirked back. "I had been on the horse for several days," Thoros continued. "My throat was dry and ached for wine, as my ass ached for a softer chair. Finally, I saw an inn to end my longing and so it did, in more ways than I expected. As I walk through the door, ordering a drink before it falls shut, I find the room crowded, with nobles and lords. Not so uncommon, right after fighting shoulder to shoulder with knights..." Beric chuckled at the repeated claim to have returned from Pyke, but he didn't interrupt.

"Some seem to recognize me, though I had no recollection of them," Thoros picked up his tale. "I was relieved to have less whinny company, and gladly accepted the offer to share their feast and their wine. And as I sit with them, drinking and talking, my tired eyes catch sight of glory. A pretty young lord, dressed in the finest fabrics, his eyes the summer sky, his hair the gold of wheat..." Again, Beric looked skeptical, but he chuckled. This 'memory' would not match what really happened, but he'd take it all the same. "I could not believe my luck when his eyes caught mine and he came over," Thoros continued, in all seriousness he could muster after all the ale and wine. "We spoke of battles, titles, lands; how could he take interest in a tired swordsman like me, I wondered?"

"How could he not? Young lords love the tales of very recent battles," Beric grinned and played along.

"That's what I learned that day." Thoros nodded earnestly. "And when the day grew old, the lord looked deeply in my eyes and asked if he could buy another cup of wine for me." He wistfully sighed and added: "The sweetest words to worn out warriors, so I agreed and we kept drinking far into the night. So much, the wine ran out, and in the end, we shared the last cup." He sighed again and ran his hand through Beric's hair. "And I think that's when I fell a little in love with him."

Beric laughed and gave Thoros a nudge; the tale maybe held truth, but it was grossly embellished. "What happened then?" he asked. "Did your lordly love ask for your hand?" Again, Thoros nodded, holding back chuckles.

"You almost guessed it," he said. "It was love at first sight, and both of us knew it, and I promised my lord to wed him, buy him the finest of gowns if only he ran away with me, to live happily ever after in a distant land."

Beric's mouth twitched at the mention of a gown, settling for something between a frown and a smile. "And the promise of gowns won him over?" he asked, half laughing. "Sounds a bit far fetched to me." Thoros shrugged with an innocent smile.

"What else could I offer?" he said. "Having no lands and no titles to impress such a man?" Then, all of a sudden, he found himself under Beric, nose to nose with him, a daring spark in his eyes.

"I begin to suspect how this tale might end," Beric said. "And I can tell you for certain that the wedding night you dream of would be dark and full of terrors. But me in a gown, that wouldn't be one of them."

Thoros laughed and slung his arms around him, one hand reached up to Beric's hair, as gold as wheat, to gently force his head down. Beric did not resist, let his head sink to Thoros' shoulder and heard him quietly laugh against his neck.

"Is the thought of me in gowns that funny?" he asked, trying to sound not too amused.

"No, it's not that." Thoros was shaking with laughter now and Beric had to know why.

"What is it then? You know your betrothed won't sleep tonight if you withhold the happy ending."

Thoros took a deep breath to stop laughing, failed at first try, then caught himself. "Betrothed, you say," he began. "That's only what you think. After tradition of Myr, I wed you years ago and just never told you."

Beric lifted his head, paused for a moment, then shrugged, now amused. "That's fine with me then," he said. "Clearly no gowns were needed for it."

Then they lay side by side, sprinkled with starlight, close like lovers who could see god in each other's eyes. "Never let me forget this night," Beric whispered. "If all other memories fade, this is the one I ask you to hold on to for me. Except for the gown part. That, darkness can have."

Thoros nodded and put his arm over Beric. "You look better in armor anyway, my pretty young lord," he replied.

It didn't take long until sleep took them, two souls as one, shining bright in the night.

That night, Thoros dreamt of light. Of neverending days of glory, warm breezes across fertile lands. Of a promised spring that brushed away the snows of winter, welcomed life back into the world. Of sunbeams on a clear blue sky of summer, caressing endless fields of gold.

When the fading sun woke them, Thoros and Beric opened their eyes to a dawn like they had never seen one before, the sky as fiery as the flames had promised. The morning was cold, but Thoros and Beric remained on the hill for some longer, side to side against the glorious sky. Held onto each other and the morning light for some longer, a fortitude of fire and light against the cold nights to come. This was R'hllor's gift, his comfort for the long winter, and deep inside, both knew they'd never see a dawn like this again.


	5. Bitter Fall

"Stop brooding. The boar didn't kill you."

Thoros stood in the entrance to his and Beric's cavern, where Beric still lay on the furs and pretended to read scrolls from Bolton ravens. The Young Wolf had left his bannermen at Harrenhal and they had been quiet for weeks now. A few scouts here and there, but lately far from their hideout, down the rivers and close to the Twins. The scrolls held no news, no secret messages; Thoros had read them. Yet Beric kept studying the brief reports of having nothing to report as if they revealed the mysteries of Asshai.

"Won't you at least come to eat it?" Thoros tried again. "You've been in here for days. The men start to worry." He saw Beric's hand reach for another old scroll.

"I never liked boar. Too tough," he gave back, still sullen, as he had been for days. "And the men can take orders from you, what's the difference?"

Thoros sighed and knelt down next to Beric. "They can and they will. But they've seen you come back from death four times. They won't lose faith over an ankle sprain." His hand ran through Beric's hair, playful and unassuming, then quickly reached over his shoulder to take the damn scroll away.

"Boars have killed kings," Beric grumbled and Thoros chuckled, until Beric took yet another scroll from the pile.

"Why are you still reading this?" Thoros sighed.

"What would you have me do?" Beric gave back. "If we don't know what the enemy is plotting, we can't strike."

Thoros leaned over him to take all of the scrolls. "True, but these don't tell you what the enemy is plotting. All they tell you is that Roose Bolton still holds Harrenhal and is bored enough to report it to the 'King in the North' every other week." Beric, robbed of his distraction, still didn't move. "And unlike you, Roose Bolton has recently seen daylight, I bet," Thoros added.

Now Beric finally turned his head to look at him. "If the Lord wanted me to leave this cave, he'd set it on fire."

Thoros couldn't help but laugh. Beric sure held a grudge against the boar. "I doubt that," he said. "The Lord clearly wants you alive, and he put a roast on our fire. Divine guidance doesn't always come wrapped in mystery."

"It's not the boar." Beric sighed and looked down to where his scrolls had been. Thoros sat down next to him, leaning back against the wall to face him. "It's too quiet out there," Beric said. "Roose Bolton has seen wars before. He isn't the Young Wolf. Why would he be this quiet if there wasn't a reason for it? Generals are rarely 'bored' during wars."

Thoros shrugged and ran his hand through Beric's hair again. "Maybe he's reading old scrolls from Lannister ravens and broods in his chambers over having no news." His hand wandered down, absently played with Beric's beard for a moment, then lifted his chin. "As long as he leaves the smallfolk alone, he can be as bored as he likes, for all I care."

Beric sighed in defeat, but he smiled. "What would I do without your wise words?"

Thoros chuckled. "Still read old scrolls," he gave back.

Beric did leave the cavern and he did eat the roast, but he did not lay thoughts about the Boltons to rest. He gathered ten men and readied the horses after the meal, to ride out to the Crossroads Inn, in hopes to find more rumors from travelers or soldiers stopping in for a drink. "You be careful out there," Thoros said, holding the reins while Beric fastened the straps of the saddle. "If you sprain the other leg now, I'll never get you out of bed again."

Beric chuckled and looked up from the straps. "As if you would mind lazing all day."

Thoros stepped behind him and put his arms around Beric. "I do mind your brooding over nothing, you know that."

Beric paused, smiling, then he finished the work. "Sometimes I wonder what's really on their minds when they see us like this," he said, leaning his head back against Thoros' and looking over to his men.

"They find it calming to know that true friendship can survive all this war and despair," Thoros answered without hesitation.

Beric stopped short and half turned around. "And how do you know that with such certainty?"

Thoros shrugged with a wry smile. "I asked them. Drunk men don't speak in riddles, my lord." He quickly kissed Beric's temple. "Maybe that's why R'hllor brings you back. Because the Red God can't stand to see us apart either."

Beric chuckled and removed himself from the hug. "That is indeed a calming thought," he said and let Thoros help him mount the horse.

"Maybe bring back a book," Thoros shouted when Beric was already a good distance away. "One by a more captivating writer than Roose Bolton." Beric turned around, laughing, before riding away with the men.

And then, hours later, Thoros sat in their cavern, hunched up against the wall, trying to remember the sound of that laughter and found it too far removed. The memory of the day was a haze; all of it. Nothing seemed real, it just couldn't be real, not again, not like this, Lord, please, not like this. He lifted his chin up from his knees just enough to look down at the curled up ball of cloaks and furs next to him. His glance didn't even graze the flames of the candles farther behind in the room. If the Red God had anything to say, Thoros didn't want to hear it. Not even a god could have words to justify this.

Only one man had returned from the Crossroads Inn, yelling to ready the horses long before he came into view. "Lions!" he screamed. "They attacked on the road and captured the others, we must hurry!" Thoros had ordered some men to stay, defend the Hollow Hill if any Lannisters gave chase, then jumped in the saddle and rode with the rest. If only he hadn't spent time to give orders, he thought now. He might not have been too late.

The way was a blur; just fragments of things the returning man said. The rest of his group stayed to fight, almost surrounded, said they'd hold off the lions so he could get away to bring help. More than a dozen of Lannister men, and they spoke of executions, of bringing justice for crimes against the crown. Then a clearing in the forest, eight men slain, dead on the ground. And one hanged on a tree, blood obscuring his face, a dagger still in his eye.

Thoros didn't remember how he got off the horse, how loud he screamed at the sky. There were arms holding him back, not letting him draw his sword, standing between him and his vengeance, against lions and god. Then the arms dragged him and he was over the body, noose and dagger now gone. Tears blurred his sight, a bizarre kind of mercy, when voices around him urged him to try. "I can't," he recalled himself sobbing, screaming, "I cannot do it, not like this... Not like this..."

But he had tried, he always did, and the Red God had answered, and here he was, in the cave. And next to him, under the pile of furs, Beric was breathing, rustling and whistling, every time he drew air like the first breath he ever took. He lay on his side, his face buried in a fur, only bloodsoaked bandages where Thoros tried to meet his eyes. What god let his champion suffer like this if he wanted him alive so badly? Why would he give his priest the power to make it so, but not to take away all the pain with it? He reached over, carefully put his hand on Beric's neck. He had to feel the warmth of his skin, had to feel the weak heartbeat, though he was unsure if the touch would bring comfort for either of them.

When Beric felt the hand on his neck, he finally moved, just barely turned his head enough to look at his priest. As gruesome as his remaining eye looked; tired and bloodshot, Thoros was certain it could see the doubt in his face, the unspoken question if he had done the right thing. He would get no answer and so he said nothing, just withstood the glance and the pain that it brought. It wouldn't compare to what the Red God put Beric through, how could anything? Only when Beric closed his eye again, exhausted from the mere act of opening it, Thoros woke from his trance. Slowly, he got to his knees, but that was all he could bring himself to do. Then he sat there again, stroking Beric's hair, with his back turned to the candles, feeling empty and numb.

The following days brought no comfort, if they passed at all. In their small private cavern, time seemed to stand still and all sound had died. Beric couldn't speak and Thoros had no will to, and the flames around them remained quiet as well. Every now and then, one of their men came, tried to make Thoros eat and was sent away with a wave of his hand. All Thoros did was watch over Beric and wait for a miracle their god would not send.

He tried to make him drink Milk of the Poppy, the last they had left. Beric could barely swallow it, but he tried. In the past, he had refused it, now the desperate attempts to accept it drove tears in Thoros' eyes. Somewhere behind the bloodshot blue of Beric's eye, he could still see a will to live, a flame that flickered, and hadn't yet died. And in a sea of candles, bathed in their warmth and their light, Thoros had nothing to ignite that breeze and make Beric burn bright again.

He considered ordering the men to make soup, and let go of the thought when he realized Beric could barely drink water. He put every fur he could find over Beric's shivering body, and when it wasn't enough, he added both their cloaks. He changed the bandages, cleaned the wounds to not fester, used herbs and oils said to help heal. He washed the cold sweat from his body, found him clean clothes when Beric's were soaked; blood, sweat and tears; pain, guilt and regret.

And as Thoros sat there, a damp cloth in one hand, his glance got caught on the scars, each one a silent memento of death. The one the lance left on his chest, near the heart. A long, thin one across the stomach, where the dagger had sliced him. Above on the ribs, the thicker, more jagged one from the axe of the hill tribes. The small one, left by the arrow that had pieced the lung. The ghastly marks on his throat, not healed yet, the twists of the noose still carved into the skin.

Beric opened his eye when he felt Thoros' finger, absently tracing the shapes of the scars. It took all his strength, all his breath, and yet it only came out as a broken whisper when he said "don't". But it was too late, had always been too late. Thoros already did. Took the blame for the scars, every last one of them. Beric had made him believe in R'hllor again, but taking this guilt was something not even his voice could do. Thoros turned his head, couldn't look at him, couldn't let Beric see that there was no absolution in his whispered words.

His eyes met the flames of the candles behind Beric, looking right at the fire for the first time in days. Their calm and their quiet held no comfort. All they did was summon sudden anger in Thoros; and he embraced it, desperately, rage was less helpless than guilt. He crawled over Beric, looked at him instead of the disgustingly calm flames, at what R'hllor had let happen. Kissed his forehead, maybe, it was hard to tell with the bandages in the way. Closed his eyes, leaned down closer, took a deep breath, inhaling fire and light. His hand under Beric's head was shaking, too weak in his anger, but Beric understood on his own.

He opened his mouth, just enough to let breath in between dry lips, closing his eye as Thoros tried, because he always did, because it was all he could do. Beric could taste his soul screaming at the Red God, demanding to give back what he owed, more than a pale shadow of life. And he felt tears, each one a curse and a prayer, as Thoros keep trying, stubborn and desperate, and the breeze would not ignite.

Thoros had lost all sense of time. Maybe they had been in their cavern for only a few days, maybe it was weeks or even months. Sleep would come and go, dreamless and flimsy. Men would come and go, probably forced him to eat, he did not remember or care. Thoughts surfaced from darkness, some born from anger, some from despair. If he'd take a blade, threaten to open his wrists, would the Red God care? Would R'hllor save him or pass his favor to one of the converts outside? What if he killed every last one of them; would that be enough blood to pay for Beric's life? What if he twisted the Lord's will, what if he quenched both their flames; could R'hllor stop it? But in these dark waters, there was one lifeline of light.

Even the gloomiest thought perished when Beric opened his eye. As the blood began fading, his glance became easier to bear. The longer Thoros withstood, the clearer he saw things he had seen five lifetimes ago. Hope, faith and fire; gratitude for being alive. The reflection of a promise he made and that had not been broken. And slowly, time began to thaw.

Beric escaped delirium more often, for longer periods of time, and he took Thoros with him. The dread and the despair still lingered, but held less power the more shortlived it was. Thoros came back alive, even spent some time outside their cavern to calm down the men. Beric had less trouble to drink and even managed to swallow soup now, though his voice still failed him more often than not. Thoros made up for it. He refreshed and restored memories, talked about the events of the day. He told him of rumors their men had heard in taverns, or if they had heard none, just tired travelers' jokes. If the scouts managed to find one, he even read him the damn scrolls from Bolton ravens, though there was still nothing new to report. He changed bandages, watched the wounds slowly heal. He kept the candles burning, and the longer he stayed in their light, the more they ate his anger away. It only flared up once, briefly and painful, when Beric gave him a glimpse of the darkness he had never shared until then.

The day had been slow, just lazy, not hopeless. All men were accounted for when the sun set, the hunters had brought enough food for several days and Roose Bolton had done nothing to provide relief for the boredom. The last raven the Brotherhood intercepted carried yet another dull phrasing of what they already knew. Even the soup Thoros had fed Beric for supper was dreary, and Beric had been alert and alive enough to complain. Thoros had concluded the day with a check on the supplies and a brief chat over wine with some of the night guards, before retiring to the cavern. Beric's grudge over the soup had faded and Thoros found him dozing under the furs. He seemed at peace, even with the bandage covering half of his face and Thoros was careful to not wake him when he crawled under the furs. Sleep came easy, for the first time in a long time, and Beric felt not quite as cold anymore in his arm.

A feeling of dread woke Thoros, still far from morning, an overwhelming sensation of darkness and fear. He felt Beric trembling against him, his fingers digging into the skin of his arm. Thoros' first instinct was to get up, get his sword, find whoever attacked them, but Beric's grasp was so tight, he stayed where he was. "What is it, my lord?" he whispered and kissed Beric's forehead, wet with cold sweat. No answer, just Beric trying to get even closer, gasping for air as if the night tried to drown him. He let go of the grip and slung his arm around Thoros, clinging to him with all strength Beric had left. Thoros returned the hug and shot a glance to the candles; still burning, but clearly not bright enough.

For a while, they just lay there, Beric's heart racing, his face buried against Thoros' neck now, and Thoros didn't know what to do, what to say.

"Thoros..." he finally heard a raspy whisper. "Thoros, promise me..."

He leaned down closer, brought his lips to Beric's ear. "Promise you what?"

Slowly, Beric raised his head, until Thoros could see his face, nothing but terror in his tearfilled eye. "Swear to me..." A desperate plea and though Thoros still didn't know what Beric asked for, he nodded his head. "Swear you won't do it, no matter what..." Again, Thoros nodded and let his hand wander up to stroke Beric's hair, hoping to calm him down enough to reveal what unheard promise was made. "If they flay me, Thoros, swear to me you won't bring me back..."

For a split second, Thoros just stared at him, then the meaning sank in and that broken whisper suddenly felt like a blade through his heart. _This_ was what the Red God put in Beric's dreams, as reward for his struggles? Not a shred of comfort, just more terror and fear? He wished that he had never heard it, that Beric had never dreamt it, and cursed R'hllor, who did not tell him why. He shot an angry glance to the candles, still disgustingly silent, then he cradled Beric and nodded once more. "I swear, every oath you can think of, every holy vow you still care for," he managed to say, the anger burning hot in his throat. "I swear I won't let that happen. I'll set their castles ablaze and burn their armies to ashes if they only try." Beric quietly nodded and put his head back down on Thoros' shoulder, removed the sight of the fear in his eye. "I'd rather follow you to the darkness," Thoros whispered, the anger now hidden behind soothing words, but he could find no sleep with the thought haunting his mind. When Beric drifted back into slumber, Thoros wrapped himself around his body, held him close, hoping the fury inside him would shroud Beric in light.

That night, Beric dreamt of fire. Of castle walls melting like wax under the scorching breath of dragons; black ruins in smoke against a fiery red sky. Of armies of strangers marching through fields of fire, burning to ashes in the heat of the air. Of a bright flame around him, flickering hot to caress him, tightly engulf him; a blazing shield to guard him from the night.

When morning came, the terror had left Beric's face and he looked peaceful again, his head still snuggled down in Thoros' shoulder, his arm still around him. Thoros gently stroked Beric's hair, hoping daylight would carry away the last shreds of the night. For a brief moment, the candles flickered, and revealed a fine line of silver; a cold breeze of winter in those fields of gold.


	6. Blind Before God

"Stop smirking. I know you are smirking."

Thoros leaned in the entrance to the armory cavern and watched Beric strap on his sword belt.

"You find no humor in this?" Beric turned around and he was smirking. "The Hand of the King sent us to bring Gregor Clegane to justice. That's why we are where we are. Both the Hand and the King are dead now. We are still here, for an oath sworn to ghosts. We've lived and died for that promise. And then Anguy comes back from a scouting trip and brings us the _wrong_ Clegane, by pure chance."

"Right." Thoros nodded, but he didn't smirk and he didn't find any humor in it. "As you said, we lived and _died_ for a promise to ghosts. And your answer to that is to laugh and sentence him to trial by combat. I thought you to be less reckless when it comes to your life by now."

"I am not reckless." Beric shook his head, as if to shake off the notion, not merely deny it. "How do you propose we find out the truth? Can you bring back the boy Lord Stark's daughter said the Hound slaughtered? Can we ask him what happened? A trial by combat is the only way to be sure."

Thoros sighed and nodded. "I can't and I know that," he said, but he wished he had left the girl back at the inn, along with her fat friend. She might have been worth another round or two and that wouldn't have been so bad, no matter what her family might pay for her return. "Still, I think we should wait. You have only been back on your feet for a few days." His glance got caught on Beric's eyepatch. "And you might need some more time to adjust."

Now Beric laughed. "You question my swordsmanship?"

Thoros replied with an apologetic shrug. "Can you really blame me?"

Beric skeptically raised his eyebrow and came closer. "This is not an ambush. I won't be outnumbered. And if I need to remind you, priest, this is the Lord's will. He wouldn't have lead Clegane to us if he didn't think I was ready to carry it out." He put his hands on Thoros' shoulders and tried to meet his eyes. For a moment, Thoros remained silent, then he slowly looked up.

"And if I need to remind you, I'm the priest who kneels over his friend's dead body, never knowing if his prayer will be answered this time." His voice carried anger, through the words came from worry and he adjusted his tone. "You may be the one who drifts into the darkness, but I see a glimpse of it with each death as well." Beric's smile faded and his hands pulled Thoros closer.

"Clegane might be guilty," he quietly said. "And if not, it will be a clean death." He paused and leaned his forehead against Thoros'. "Your prayer will be answered, should it come to that. I know it. The Lord of Light would not see me dead for shining light on the truth." Thoros nodded. He still didn't like the situation he had unwittingly put them in, but he tried to sound less gloomy.

"Maybe I got the wrong gut feeling," he said with a forced chuckle. "Maybe you're not after a fight, but another kiss from your priest."

The smirk returned to Beric's face. "Aye, maybe I am," he replied. "My priest tastes of life and that's what I thirst for." He put a kiss on Thoros' lips, let go of his shoulders and before Thoros realized what had happened, Beric was outside in the tunnel. "Put your worries to rest," he said. "The Lord won't quench that thirst tonight for good."

"Maybe the Lord _does_ agree with me that you have become too reckless," Thoros whispered not an hour later and he immediately regretted it. Was this what death had become to them? Something to joke about, a point of casual conversation?

"Maybe he does," Beric, still on the floor, replied. "But he also brought me back, like I told you he would. And we do have the truth now."

Thoros sighed and offered Beric his arm to help him up. "Let's not make 'I told you so' a habit when it comes to you dying," he said.

Beric, now back on his feet and holding his shoulder, nodded. "Aye, you get no argument from me there," he gave back. Thoros shot him a serious glance, then searched his pockets for the note he had prepared.

Thoros had thought it unlikely that a Clegane would turn out innocent, no matter what he stood accused of, but Beric had insisted to write it anyway. And even with the Lord's judgement passed, there was still doubt that the Hound was free of any guilt. Yes, this hadn't been murder, but there were probably other crimes that no witness could bring forward anymore. Thoros found the note, rolled up in his pocket, pulled it out and handed it to Clegane without even looking at him. "It's clearly spelled out here that you'll be repaid after the war is over," he said, wasting not a word more than necessary and turned away.

"Piss on that!" the Hound shouted and threw the note back at him. Thoros didn't bother to pick it up. If Clegane didn't want his money back, all the better. Not that it was much, but every coin helped in these days. Roose Bolton kept sitting still in his ruin, Robb Stark's army was last seen marching to Riverrun, the Lannisters had withdrawn to King's Landing and there were not many sources of income for a band of outlaws. Any coin was welcome, regardless who gave it, willing or not.

"You're nothing but a bunch of thieves!" the Hound added, as angry as before. There's no need to shout in a cavern, Thoros thought and almost said it out loud, but there was also no need to anger a savage brute even more.

"We're outlaws." Anguy shrugged. "Outlaws steal. You're lucky we didn't kill you right where we found you."

Clegane turned to him and paid no more attention to the note. "You're welcome to try, archer, and I'll shove those arrows up your arse..." he began, but Thoros grabbed him by the collar and pulled him back.

"You can't let him go! He's a murderer!" the Stark girl interrupted. "I saw it! He's guilty!" Thoros sighed to himself. No matter what R'hllor said, deep down he agreed with the child. But saying so would do nothing to finally bring this ordeal to an end.

"Not in the eyes of god." Beric looked over to the girl and her friend now, then he nodded to the man holding Clegane's sword.

"But you can't...!" the girl tried again.

"Enough!" Beric cut her off. "That judgement isn't ours to make." Reluctantly, Anguy handed the sword belt to Clegane, who huffed and put it back on. Thoros let go off his collar, but stayed in arm's reach, just in case. "Go in peace, Sandor Clegane. The Lord of Light isn't done with you yet," Beric turned back to Clegane. Then a bag was thrown over the Hound's scarred face from behind and the men assigned to return him to a safe distance led him away.

The men of the Brotherhood had withdrawn to their sleeping places or returned to their guard posts. Beric was still back in the cavern, getting dressed again after treating the wound. Only Thoros lay on a stack of sacks by the fire and finished his drink. Across the fire, the Stark girl sat, watching him with suspicion, reciting the names she had been saying a few times throughout the day. She looked angry at him and Thoros couldn't blame her; he was a bit angry with himself. It would have been best for everyone if he had just left her at the Crossroads Inn. She'd have had her fat friend to keep her company, a decent chance to be found by Stark loyalists or even her brother, and she would have been spared the brief hope to find justice for her friend's death. Not every death was a murder, but in the end, that changed very little. It was still a lost life and still a lost friend.

And Beric wouldn't have had to die again if Thoros had left her with the fat boy. The few heartbeats he spent in darkness were nothing compared to the death before this one, but that too was a lost life nonetheless.

"What are you going to do with me now?" the girl asked after she was done reciting her list.

"By first light, we'll ride for Riverrun," Thoros said. "Your brother is there now. He'll make a contribution to our cause and you can go." He tried to add a smile, but the girl didn't care for that notion.

"I'm a hostage," she calmly replied and let her gaze drift to the fire. The fierce attitude she had shown earlier was replaced by resignation. "So you're selling me".

"Don't think of it that way," Thoros quickly gave back, but she didn't even wait for him to finish.

"But it is that way," she interrupted and Thoros vaguely nodded.

"It is," he admitted, then realized the honesty wouldn't make it any better for the kid. "It is and it isn't," he corrected himself.

"What is and isn't?" she asked, but she didn't seem to expect a real answer and just stared back into the fire.

"Beric admired your father a great deal, you know," Thoros tried to give one anyway. "He wanted to refuse..."

Now Arya looked back up. "Then why don't you?" she interrupted again.

Maybe honesty was the right thing to offer, Thoros decided. "We need the gold." He heard steps from behind and when he shot a glance in their direction, he saw Beric return. He was the one the girl really wanted an explanation from and Thoros hoped whatever words he could give her would be enough to make up for the mistake to bring her here in the first place.

Before Beric sat down on the grain sacks, he gave Thoros a brief glance and a smile, an unspoken "I assure you I'm fine". Thoros returned the glance only, his equally silent "I'm not", then turned his attention back to his rum.

"Do I frighten you, child?" Beric had sat down next to Thoros and looked over to Arya now.

"No," she promptly replied.

 _It frightens me how quickly you forgot the execution_ , Thoros thought, but he remained quiet.

"You're angry with me," Beric noted after watching the girl for a moment. "And I don't blame you. But letting him go was the right thing to do. And I have more reason than most to want him hanged."

"I thought he killed you." Arya sounded confused, not frightened, and Thoros couldn't blame her for that either. The kid had been through tough times, that was easy to see. He had dragged her away from the comfort of the only friends she had left in the world. And for what? To see a man she thought of as a murderer escape justice and the one she hoped would bring it get away with his refusal to do so. Of course she was confused and angry.

"He did," Beric replied to her question with a much too short answer.

"But how...?" the girl began.

"Thoros?" Beric now looked back to his priest. "How many times have you brought me back?"

Thoros didn't want any part in this conversation. "It's the Lord of Light who brings you back," he sighed. Beric knew exactly how many times the Lord had done so and he didn't need Thoros to spell things out. "I'm just the lucky drunk who says the words," he added and raised his flask to a tired toast, to his blessing or his curse.

"How many times?" Beric asked again, this time more demanding.

"Five, I think?" Thoros sighed again. "Now this makes six."

"Six..." Beric quietly repeated and it occured to Thoros that maybe, he really couldn't recall them all.

"The first time, it was the Mountain," he picked up where Beric's tale was going. He owed the kid as much, though he still didn't quite feel like talking. "Show her." He looked to Beric, another glance that carried unspoken words, repeating the promise to remember for him, should he start to forget. Beric looked down and pulled his shirt open, showing both Arya and himself the scar. "Lance, right through the chest," Thoros explained and it jogged Beric's memory. He pulled the shirt down deeper.

"Stabbed in the belly," he said.

"And then an arrow to the back," Thoros helped him.

"Then an axe to the side..." Beric showed the larger scar and Thoros leaned back again. Beric remembered enough now to see this tale through. "Then the Lannisters caught me and executed me for treason," he confirmed the hope, just to look right back to Thoros. "Was that hanging or a dagger through the eye?"

"Both," Thoros quickly gave back. How could Beric forget that? Was he putting up a show for the Stark girl? Was it the two recent deaths in too short succession leaving not enough time for his memory to recover? Thoros hoped with all his heart it was the former, but he couldn't be sure. "Fuckers couldn't decide", he turned to Arya, trying to play along with the casual tone Beric had set. Now Beric briefly lifted the eyepatch, as if he had just remembered he wore it, then put it back down when he noticed Thoros' side glance. "And the Hound made six," Thoros sighed, to get over with the tale.

"Second time I've been killed by a Clegane." Beric almost sounded satisfied with that.

"You think they'd learn," Thoros said and he didn't mean the Clegane brothers. "It's not getting any easier, you know?" He turned back to Arya, but Beric understood he was talking to him, about him.

"I know," he said calmly. "Every time I come back, I'm a bit less." He, too, looked at Arya, but his words were also meant for Thoros, to acknowledge his concerns. "Pieces of you get chipped away," he said, not trying to make it sound so casual anymore.

For a moment, the girl thoughtfully regarded him, then her eyes wandered back to Thoros. "Could you bring back a man without a head?" she asked. "Not six times, just once."

The reminder of Lord Eddard removed the last hint of a smile from Beric's face and Thoros froze inside. He shot a brief glance at the eyepatch. The eye was gone. A head would not magically be restored either. If Beric... No, not now. He couldn't finish that thought.

"I don't think it works that way, child," he gently replied and tried his hardest to not look back at the girl the way she looked at him. Heartbroken and all alone in the world. Her glance got lost in the fire, thinking back to her father, beheaded for treason; the ghost who still haunted them all long after his death. But Thoros couldn't hide his thoughts from Beric. One brief glance and Beric knew. He knew what Thoros was thinking, that his throat felt too tight to even breathe.

"He was a good man, Ned Stark," he said to Arya, drawing her attention back to him and away from his priest and the fire. "He's at rest now, somewhere. I would never wish my life upon him." And that did nothing to calm Thoros' troubled mind. Did he wish this life upon himself? Had Beric grown tired of this cat and mouse game with death? Was it a death wish and not faith in R'hllor anymore? Was it really the right thing, bringing him back twice to a life he no longer wanted? Was the claim to be thirsty for life just a farce to put his priest at ease, relieve him of the doubt and the guilt?

"I would," the girl answered, quiet but firmly. "You are alive."

Thoros could feel his heart break when he heard that. It took a little girl to remind him that he should be grateful; that Beric was alive, against all odds alive, and there should be no question if that had been the right thing to do. It took all his strength to pull himself together and up from the grain sacks, but he had to. This conversation had already gone too far and it had to end, now. There was no reason to torture the girl or himself with more talk of death.

"Come on, I'll take you to your friend," he offered, now standing, a tower of strength built on a swamp. The girl shook her head and got up, ignoring his hand.

"I know where he is," she gave back, sad and defiant. "I can find the way by myself."

And as she disappeared in a barely lit tunnel, Thoros still stood there, back turned to Beric and the fire, the weight of the day heavy on him. For a while, it was silent, just the crackling of the fire, each of the two men alone with his thoughts.

"What troubles my priest?" Beric finally broke the silence.

"You, my lord," Thoros gave back, not turning around and just clutching his flask. He couldn't hear it over the fire, but he knew Beric sighed. "Is this what we've come to?" Thoros continued. "Is death now a bedtime story for children to you?" He waited, but instead of an answer, he heard Beric get up from the grain sacks and come around the fire to him.

"It is not," Beric replied firmly. He put a hand on Thoros' shoulder, but Thoros still didn't turn around to face him.

"Then why do you talk like it is?" he asked. "That's not thirst for life. Bragging to a girl who just lost her father about coming back from death is just cruel."

Beric withdrew his hand. "I was not bragging," he said, as firm as before. "I was facing what we can no longer deny."

Now Thoros slightly turned his head to shoot a glance over his shoulder. "And what is that? The reality of you losing more and more of yourself?" In the corner of his eye, he saw Beric's silhouette nod, a dark shape standing tall against the light of the fire behind him. "What answer is that?" Thoros barked back at the unspoken reply. "You forgot your own deaths. You forgot you lost a fucking eye! The one fact you need to face is that we can't go on like that."

Beric stepped closer, directly behind Thoros. "Aye, that is one fact," he calmly gave back. "And death is another."

Thoros swirled around, brows furrowed with anger. "Is that what this is about? You grew tired of this existance?"

Beric slowly shook his head, not acknowledging his priest's harsher tone. "I have not," he thoughtfully said. "I still have a purpose. The Lord does not refuse to let me die without reason." Thoros sighed, rolled his eyes and turned back around, to look at the dark cavern wall in front of him.

"Aye, the Lord does," he said resignedly. "What about you? Is there nothing left of you anymore?"

"There is." Beric put his arms around Thoros and rested his chin on his shoulder. "You want to know what I miss in this life?" He pulled Thoros closer when he got no reply. "Nothing," Beric continued, now almost a whisper. "I have lost nothing. It is all in you. My memories, my life, my faith and my purpose. Through all these deaths, you have kept your promise and held onto it for me." Thoros didn't know what to say, so he just raised his flask to drink the last rum. "Together, we are divine," Beric went on. "And as long as I have you by my side, I will thirst for life."

Thoros still had no answer and just dropped the empty flask to the ground. He took a deep breath and put his hands on Beric's arms, still around him. "I don't hold your purpose, the Lord does," he said. "And all he has recently given us is death." It was quiet for a moment, just the crackle of the fire, Beric's beard rustling against his.

"And we can't go on living in fear of it," Beric then said. "We need to be blind to the inevitable, have faith in the Lord to guide us, or our fear will chip all of us away."

That night, Thoros dreamt of light. Of dark clouds torn apart by sun beams, waking ashes to new life. Of a bright flame by his side that did not burn him and grew more radiant with each step they took together in the night.

The Red Woman had come when the morning turned into midday and she had been everything Thoros was not. A servant of light, bright flames of faith in her heart, unwavering in her conviction to do the right thing. The brilliant aura of light that surrounded her made it so easy to believe it was the Lord guiding her here, so easy to believe she truly knew her purpose and nothing could stand in her way.

And Thoros didn't like any of it. Not that the Lord gave her such certainty and left him in the dark. Not what she asked for, and not the futility to refuse the demand. Not her dismissal of the Lord's favor; the disdain for the drunk priest holding a gift he didn't deserve in her eyes. Not the way she looked at Beric, as if she thought the Lord made a mistake to take note of him. Not that she got what she wanted, took the last friend the Stark girl had left and paid with hollow words and hard coins. But none of it mattered. Now she was gone and with her the boy she had come for, and the last shred of trust the Stark girl had had in him.

Thoros returned to the cave and found Beric standing by the fire, the bags with their payment still in his hands. The air of the cave was heavy with his discontent, but he remained silent and waited for his priest to approach. Thoros stopped a few steps behind him and regarded him and the fire for a moment. "And here we are, with blind trust in the Lord, and neither of us likes where he guides us", he addressed Beric's back.

"I never said it would be easy." Beric slowly turned around. "You know, I liked the boy. He would have been of great help to our cause. Not only his skill as a smith. He had his heart in the right place, too," he added after a short pause. "Maybe the Lord saw that."

Thoros raised his eyebrows and gave Beric an incredulous glance. "Maybe," he said. "Or we might never know."

 _And maybe, just maybe_ , he added in thought, _one day I will learn to be as fearless as you_.


	7. Autumn's Lullaby

Thoros looked over the bows in the armory another time. A few had new strings now; Anguy had fixed them earlier in the evening. Next to the bows, a range of shields leaned against the wall, some patched up, some still in need of repair. It would be taken care of in the morning; the men for it had already been assigned and were just waiting for the material to finish the job. A barrel with scrap metal, next to the entrance; everything from old buckles and bridles to dull arrowheads and broken swords. One day, it would all be smelted, then forged into new weapons and tools. Right now, there was nothing to be done with any of it. It had been discarded for a reason; all of it was beyond repair, no matter how many times Thoros looked to find that one useful piece.

Thoros took the torch and left the armory to stop by the supply cavern. He had been here an hour ago and not a thing had changed since then. Barrels and sacks were just where they had been earlier, as was the firefood, the freshly tanned pieces of leather, the furs and the crates full of the Lord knew what else. Thoros stood in the entrance for a while, pretended to himself to take inventory and listened to the sounds of the Hollow Hill. Voices of brothers from the deeper tunnels, laughter sometimes, then a shout or a curse. A dice game, perhaps, or wagering on the spoils the raiding party would bring. Thoros grabbed a smaller piece of wood from the stack, then returned with it to the main room, to check on the fire, for the fifth time today.

He put the wood in the fire and then he just sat there again. Watched the flames dance greedily around the new fodder, burn brightly and wildly; the sight had a calming effect. The flames never flared when Beric had died, as if the fire died with him, as if god looked away. Maybe it was cheating to feed them with more wood to burn, but who cared if the result put Thoros at ease. Beric was out there, somewhere to the West to raid a Lannister encampment for the much needed supplies. And all Thoros could do in his absence was sit by the fire and wait for the waiting to get any easier.

Raiding the Lannisters, that was what the Brotherhood had been planning the night the Stark girl escaped. Sometimes Thoros wondered how far she had made it, if she was even still alive. He liked to think she was found by other stray wolves, taken back to her fat friend, and lived happily ever after with him and his pies. She had run away in anger, shouting at Beric, saying he was a liar and that she wished him and all of his men dead. But Thoros couldn't hold a grudge, not even that night. "We'll look for her later," Beric had said and both he and Thoros had known they would not. It had been the one thing they had done right, the second best they could do for Eddard Stark's daughter, and maybe it had even saved her life.

Not long after her escape, the Young Wolf had been murdered, betrayed by his bannerman Bolton and Walder Frey. Had the Brotherhood ransomed the girl as planned, she would have been there, for a bloody reuinion, another name to be mourned in the wake of the war. But that was not what had happened.

She had run away, had been picked up by Stark men, returned to her friend and now had her belly filled with the most delicious pies. And her other friend, the smith, he was with the Red Woman. He'd learn where he came from, find the family he wished for under her guidance, just like Beric had with the Brotherhood. Maybe that was why the Red Woman had looked at him with such contempt; because he and Thoros had each other and she had nobody close to her. Maybe she had come to them to find the Lord's gift to her, a friend and companion. Maybe the Red God would set his sword ablaze, would return him from death, should he fall.

Deep down, Thoros knew that neither was likely. The Riverlands held many dangers, for a band of armed outlaws and even more for a fierce little girl with a stolen Lannister sword. And the Red Woman would not have made the way out here for a forlorn lad if there wasn't more to it than him being destined to fight in the army of light. But imagining the Brotherhood's guests had found a better life somewhere out there calmed his conscience and as long as Thoros had no proof of a harsher reality, he'd hold onto the thought.

There was also no proof of a harsh reality regarding Beric, if cheating higher flames out of the pit counted or not. But it was still not easy to put the concerns aside. He was right, they could not live in fear, had to face the true enemy, look death in the eye. The betrayal of Freys and Boltons had ended Robb Stark's march toward lions, yet the war was not over. 'The War of the Five Kings', people called this and three were still out there. This was not the time to hide deep in the tunnels, Thoros knew that. It was a chance to strike, use the aftermath to their advantage, gather supplies; the winter to come would be even colder down in a cave.

Thoros leaned back on the sacks, put his legs up and reached for his rum. It had only been four days now and the camp Beric intended to raid was almost two days away. There was no reason to worry yet, no lengthy delay. He'd give it another hour, have a nightcap and return to the cavern when the night guards changed shift.

The shift had long changed when Thoros woke up. He was still on the grain sacks, still in the main cave, the fire still roaring, though it hadn't been fed. When he instinctively looked around for his bottle, still half asleep, he realized he could barely move and so he only lifted his head. Beric was sleeping, half on the grain sacks, half over Thoros, his cloak had probably been draped over both of them at some point. His armor, scattered on the floor next to the fire, didn't seem to be damaged, just more scratched than it had been before he had left.

Thoros breathed a sigh of relief and shot a glance to the fire, a silent thanks to the Lord. Then he began to feel the weight on him and realized that the sacks he was on offered just enough comfort for one man to nap. He gave a quiet smile to his sleeping champion, then gently shook him until Beric opened his eye. He briefly looked up, then let his head sink back to Thoros' shoulder and mumbled into it to leave him in peace.

"You'll regret this in the morning," Thoros whispered.

"So be it," Beric gave back, as sleepy as stubborn.

Thoros sighed, though still with a chuckle, then he tried to make more room on the sacks and pull Beric closer, so he wouldn't fall off to the floor. They'd both regret not getting up and going back to their cavern, but right now, it was worth it. Thoros managed to turn his head enough to put a kiss on Beric's head, then he leaned back and closed his eyes. Felt a warmth deeper than fire in his arms, Beric's heartbeat against his chest, his breath on his shoulder. Tonight, there was nothing that could harm them in the world, not even the discomfort of stacked grain sacks.

Morning came soon and with it, an end to the peace and quiet in the Hollow Hill's main room. The spoils of the raid were carried through tunnels, stored away for later or put to use for repairs. The voices of brothers, crates and sacks being dragged, the clanking of metal on metal, the buzzing of arrows outside from getting used to new bows.

"You regret it already."

Thoros chuckled, seeing Beric's tortured expression when he lifted his head.

"I don't," Beric claimed, but the quiet groan when he got up said otherwise. "I never slept better in my life," he tried to negate it. "But I begin to think I got too used to the smell of booze to sleep well without it."

Thoros smirked and sat up. "Aye, that has to be it." He reached for the flask next to the sacks they had slept on. "Maybe you should make it a habit to take a bottle or two with you then."

Beric stretched and turned back to Thoros. "What makes you think I don't?" He offered Thoros a hand to pull him up from the sacks. "They never last long once the men see I don't drink it and I'd feel bad to not let them have the booze."

Thoros opened his bottle to pour down the last rum, then followed Beric to the entrance of the cave. "If only I had known more about resurrections back at Mummer's Ford," he said, chuckling. "If I had been more thorough, your heart would have stopped bleeding by now." Beric gave him a long glare, then went outside, squinting to adjust his eye to the bright morning sun. "I'm glad the weather cleared up," he said. "I grew tired of seeing nothing but gray clouds and rain." Thoros pulled his cloak tighter over his shoulders. The morning was bright and equally cold, though Beric had a point, it had been even worse in those past few days. "I can live with the weather being our only complaint," Thoros gave back before returning to the cave to find a new flask of rum.

The success of the raid had been a welcome change, after months of just barely getting by. With the Young Wolf, the Northern war effort had died. All that was left were scattered survivors; most badly wounded with nothing to steal. Roose Bolton had left as quietly as he had sat in his ruin, had taken his soldiers back to their homelands and claimed his prize; Winterfell. Stannis Baratheon was said to march North as well, but that was the only thing all rumors agreed on. Some said he planned to end the new friendship of Boltons and Lannisters before it could grow. Others said he went after the Greyjoys, wanted to remove the third king from the game and win the favor of what was left of the Northern houses. The Riverlands had grown quiet once more; the enemy armies were leaving and with them their supplies.

The spoils of the raid left the hardship forgotten, at least for a while. Spirits were lifted and that was needed just as much as supplies. The day after word of Robb Stark's death had reached the Hollow Hill, a handful of men had left to return to their old lives in settlements they thought to be safe after the armies were gone. A few brothers whispered about that some days, considered to follow them and lay down their swords. Others found it was time to move on, follow the soldiers and take the fight to the North. Then there were those who disagreed with that notion, saying the war in the North was not the one the Brotherhood was meant to fight. They had sworn to track down the Mountain and he'd be with the lions, in the Riverlands or the Reach. Since the raiders had returned, these discussions had died down. Beric had brought more than weapons and coins back to the Hollow Hill. He had brought hope and a renewed sense of purpose, silenced those whispers, if only for a short while.

The air of the evening was cold under the clear starry sky. The forest's song had gone quiet with nightfall; not even a wind rustled the trees, just a distant owl could be heard. It was a serene contrast to the chatter and laughter inside the Hill, where men were enjoying better food and drink than in the weeks before.

Thoros sat outside the cavern on a log, a small fire roaring in a simple pit, the flames sizzling and flaring as he poured a slug of rum into them.

"Sharing a drink with the Lord?"

Thoros looked up when he heard Beric's voice and found him leaning against the rocky wall by the entrance, watching the peculiar prayer, his cloak wrapped tightly around him.

"Least I can do after he sent you back in one piece."

Now Beric came closer, up the small rise, to his priest and the fire. "You still worry whenever I leave," he said. Thoros took a pull from his bottle and shrugged undecidedly, neither confirming nor denying the claim. Beric shot him a smile and sat down, then held his hand out for the bottle. Thoros raised his eyebrows with some surprise, but he handed over the rum and watched Beric try to not grimace when he took a sip.

"I promised to be less reckless." Beric let the bottle sink and shuddered in mild disgust at the aftertaste.

Thoros nodded. "And for all I know, you're keeping that promise," he gave back and stared into the flames. "I shouldn't even be talking. You probably saved my drunk arse more often than I saved your sober one by now." He tried to say it in jest, but the words held some truth. There had been close calls when they rode out together and Thoros recalled being cornered, just to see his enemies fall in the very last moment, struck down by fire and steel.

"Aye, you might be right about that." Beric chuckled and regarded the bottle, then hestitantly took another quick sip. "Yet I'm not lecturing you about having more faith in drunk luck than the Lord." He looked over to Thoros; there was a challenging spark when their eyes met.

Thoros sighed and stared back at the fire. "I know, I know," he said. "The Lord has not given me any more reason for concern and neither have you. You're right, it's irrational and silly to..." He broke off when Beric quietly poured the rest of the rum into the fire.

"Aye, it is," Beric said when the bottle was empty. "And yet I feel the same when you leave without me." He got up from the log and made a few steps down the rise, toward the cave's entrance. "If the Lord thinks us fools, let him. I'm sure he appreciates the rum all the same."

The night had crept into the Hollow Hill, the tunnels were quiet now and the fires burned low. Beric stopped in the entrance to their private cavern and unwrapped himself from the cloak.

"Despite your concerns, you seem to have made peace with the thought I might not come back," he jokingly noted, looking over the few candles in the corner and all furs piled up on Thoros' side of the sleeping place. Thoros shrugged and gave him a push into the room, then followed him inside and went to the small hanging brazier in the corner to rekindle it.

"Couldn't find myself another warm lord on such short notice," he gave back.

Beric stopped opening his tunic and shot him a wary glance. "I don't like my odds," he said, mocking offense. "There's more lords than red priests out there."

Thoros chuckled and stepped away from the brazier, to Beric, and continued where he had left off on the tunic. "Lots of prissy knights in shiny armor sitting in their fancy castles," he said. "I prefer my lord to be ruggedly handsome, in scratched armor and not above living in caves." He smirked and added: "And slightly too used to the smell of booze."

Beric answered with a playfully sulky glare and stripped off the tunic, then sat down on the pile of furs. Thoros had turned to a crate full of candles, but now he watched Beric stretch out on the furs instead. "Don't think you can have them all to yourself now," he said. "The wolves may have left, but winter is still coming for us."

Beric nodded, now more serious. "I know," he thoughtfully replied. "And we need to decide if we wait for it here or follow the wolves."

Thoros took a handful of candles and stepped over Beric and the furs to replace the burned down stubs in the corner. "There's even more winter in the North," he gave back. "And I don't know if we have the numbers or strength to get between stags, wolves and kraken." Beric nodded, but didn't say anything and absently watched the flames in the brazier.

"We know the Riverlands, where to hunt, which merchants will sell to us outlaws, where the lions patrol," Thoros continued. "In the North, all we can guess is that those armies will probably be low on supplies without us stealing from them." He shoved Beric a bit to the side to find room on the fur pile for himself.

"You are right," Beric finally said. "We can do more good here by helping the smallfolk rebuild and taking our chances with the lions." He didn't sound convinced by his own words though and only took his eye off the fire when Thoros nudged him. He moved to let him pull out some of the furs under them. "Are we doing the right thing?" he asked. "Maybe the men are right to think we no longer have a role to play in this war. Maybe we should stop encouraging them to keep fighting and let them go. Many of them _are_ the smallfolk we try to protect."

Thoros waited for Beric to move closer and rest his head on the arm he offered, then pulled the furs over them both. "You worry we can no longer provide for them when winter comes," he concluded. "But they won't have any guarantee to survive in what's left of their homes either. Not all of them even have a home left to return to."

Beric nodded. "I know," he said quietly. "I don't." Thoros shook his head, but before he could reply, Beric continued: "Some days, I forget what my home was called. Blackcastle? Blackfort? Black...?"

"...haven," Thoros finished for him.

"I try to picture it, where I grew up, who I grew up with," Beric went on. "It's all vague and blurry and I find myself not caring anymore." He turned to look at Thoros. "These men still remember. If they return home, they can rebuild their lives. I can't ask them to follow me until they only have memories of misery and war."

Thoros withstood his glance, not hiding the sadness and concern in his eyes. "We can talk to the men in the morning," he said after a moment of silence. "We'll lay out the plans for the months to come and let them make the choice." Beric nodded and Thoros reached behind the furs. He found his flask there, opened it with his teeth and took a quick sip. "And you have more than misery and war left," he added. "I promised you I wouldn't let you forget."

And when Thoros began to remind him, the doubt on Beric's face faded. He closed his eye, with a smile on his lips, and listened. To the life that sometimes seemed to slip through his fingers, and safely got caught by his priest's hands. To the hope and the courage he inspired in the brothers sleeping outside in the caverns, their stubborn resilience and their burning faith in R'hllor. Felt the warmth of the fire, the gentle touch of its light. Thoros' hand in his hair, and a sense of belonging, flavored with the rum's rough scent of home. When sleep finally came, the coming of winter did no longer scare him. No matter what the long night held for them, his priest would be there with him, would be his light in those dark days, and he'd be Thoros' warm breeze in the cold.

That night, Beric dreamt of fire. Of flickering candles in studies and libraries, dim light illuminating the stories of old. Of laughter of friends around roaring fires, scents of roast and spiced wine filling the air. Of a refuge in the heart of winter, a warm place to rest for worn out souls.


	8. Into The Twilight

R'hllor often worked in mysterious ways, but this time, it was almost comical how promptly he answered to Beric's concerns. Only days after the men had been given the choice to stay with the Brotherhood or try their luck in the settlements, a scout returned with good news. A road had been rendered impassable for wagons due to a storm, and it forced Walder Frey's men to take a different route. To reach the Twins, the supplies from the Reach now had to be brought through a narrow pass between rocks and rivers; easy to waylay and hard to escape. With winter coming closer and closer, the Freys were in a hurry to fill their cellars and did not get much support from whoever sat on the throne.

One king or another had won the war five of them fought, and then the victor had died just like the rest. Stannis Baratheon had made it to the North, and neither he nor his army ever came back. Balon Greyjoy had been killed by his brother, but no ravens confirmed or denied if his killer now claimed a crown. Lord Stark's bastard had been declared the new 'king in the north', and did not concern himself with the other six kingdoms. Who knew, maybe there were more new kings rising and falling in the Stormlands, the Reach or in Dorne, each of them content with just one realm to rule.

It mattered very little in the Riverlands, where not much had changed since Robb Stark had been killed. Nobody was left to challenge the rule of House Frey, or nobody else cared to rule the pillaged remains of their lands. There had been a brief desperate uproar; the Blackfish holed up in his ancestral castle, but Riverrun was a long ride away. Lord Frey's allies had all hands full of their own problems. The Lannisters paid their debt, but little attention after the siege had been resolved and House Bolton had their own battles to fight in the North. It was almost too easy to wait for the Frey wagons and take all they carried, month by month, again and again.

Still, a good amount of the brothers had chosen to go home, to use the supplies to make repairs and rebuild. Those that stayed helped when they could, brought spoils when the Freys had delivered and made the late fall look less bleak. It finally felt like the Brotherhood made a real difference, a permanent one, with no armies left to trample it down a few months down the road.

The moon stood high between clouds and a storm was brewing when Thoros returned with a group of raiders and more sacks of loot. The Freys had finally made an attempt to defend their wagons and sent more soldiers to protect them, to no avail. All they achieved was the addition of swords and shields to the spoils of their attackers.

Thoros left the night guards some ale, then went down the tunnel to the private cavern and was almost repelled by the light from within. He had only been gone for three days, but apparently Beric had made good use of that time, doubled the candles and claimed all of the furs. Thoros chuckled and took off cloak, armor and tunic, then almost tripped over an open bottle of rum next to the fur pile. "We need to talk about seizing my lands and possessions, your lordship," he jokingly addressed Beric's shape under the furs, but he got no reply. His lordship was sleeping and left the rum undefended, so Thoros reseized it, closed the bottle and stored it away in a safer spot.

"At least you're wearing your own clothes, damn improverished noble," Thoros noted when he crawled under the furs and he was almost certain to hear Beric snicker at that. "Too bad you're sleeping," Thoros said with a smirk, his fingers playfully running up and down Beric's neck. "Otherwise I'd offer a more comfortable pillow, but it seems you don't need..." He didn't get further, Beric lifted his head just enough for Thoros to slide his arm under it. Thoros smiled triumphantly and placed a kiss on the back of Beric's head. "You're such a bad liar, you can't even pretend to be sleeping," he commented. "You should just drop this charade. You always blink first."

After a moment of silence, Beric pretended to yawn, but he still didn't move. "Strange, I thought I heard noises, but it was probably just the fire crackling," he mumbled into the fur. "If my priest was returning, he'd be quiet enough to not wake me." Thoros gave him a nudge, trying to get Beric to move and leave him more room, with little success.

"Aye, your priest is known to sit in quiet contemplation after returning from raids."

Now Beric finally shifted and turned on his back, no longer facing the wall and the candles. "I take it the Freys delivered as usual?" he asked, more serious in tone.

"You wouldn't believe it," Thoros replied with an air of importance.

Beric now faced him and skeptically furrowed his brow. "Maybe I won't," he gave back. "You're a better liar than me and I know you might try to fool me."

Thoros shook his head. "I wouldn't lie about such matters, my lord," he claimed, stifling a chuckle. "As unbelievable as it might sound, it is all true. We lay in wait on the hills, then the wagon came as expected, trying to sneak by unseen in the dark. And as we attack, we see a horde of riders approach from the other direction..."

Beric laughed and shook his head. "No, you were not taken by surprise by a Dothraki horde," he said.

"We were not," Thoros earnestly confirmed. "When they came closer, we saw it was all of the Freys! Lord Walder in his battle-stained armor riding ahead, and all of his two hundred sons and grandsons and great grandsons followed, armed to the teeth."

Beric reached next to their sleeping place, feeling around for the rum and found it gone. "Where did you put it?" He turned back to Thoros. "I fear you're too sober to tell me the truth."

"I can assure you I'm not sober," Thoros replied. "And I know what I saw."

Beric pulled his arm back under the furs. "Alright then, you were approached by Lord Frey and his two hundred heirs..."

Thoros nodded. "They surrounded the pass and demanded we release the wagon with their almonds and figs. That's when I stopped short and told them we couldn't do that. Even if we were willing to comply, the wagon we held was loaded with onions and carrots. Turns out Lord Walder came to the defense of a delivery we took six months ago and as always, he was just a bit late."

Beric smirked and nodded. "Aye, that's a dangerous misunderstanding. Did you release the onions and carrots to escape with your life?"

Thoros decidedly shook his head. "I wouldn't dare to return to my lord empty handed," he said. "I was left with no choice but to fight each of the Freys in single combat. So that's what I did, defeated all three hundred of them, one by one." He looked at Beric with feigned concern. "Did it work? Is my lord sufficiently impressed?"

Beric regarded him for a while, as long as he could keep a straight face. "That depends. Did you bring back the four hundred swords of the fallen Freys?"

Thoros nodded. "Of course I did. We have enough swords to forge our own Iron Throne now!"

Beric still tried to look stern, but his efforts were failing. "I am impressed then," he said. "But those five hundred swords are put to better use with our men." He paused and his tone turned serious again. "If we still had five hundred men..."

"Well, we don't really have five hundred new swords either," Thoros gave back. "But certainly enough for the remaining men and then some to pass around to the smallfolk."

Beric thought for a moment and his gaze went back to the ceiling. "The Lord has answered my prayers," he thoughtfully said. "Maybe now it is time we answer to his demands."

Over the past weeks, the flames hadn't been silent. Both Thoros and Beric had seen the visions their god had sent. Images of snowy roads and paths through unknown lands, the flight of crows through winter skies. Faces of strangers, voices speaking in unfamiliar accents, the great wall in the North, a clash of fire and ice. R'hllor had been patient for a long time, but those visions had become more and more frequent and Thoros and Beric knew what it meant. Their god told them their work in the Riverlands came to an end and the path he wanted them to walk led to the North.

Thoros nodded and pulled Beric closer. "I don't look forward to more winter," he said. "But you are right. We have done all we could here. It's time to ride North." Beric didn't react. He just kept staring to the ceiling and sighed.

"But not all of our men will ride with us," he said after a while.

"No, probably not," Thoros replied. "Those who have families here will..." Beric shook his head and Thoros broke off.

"It is not their choice, not this time." Beric now looked back to his priest and there was a different pain in his eye.

"I heard a group of scouts whisper earlier," he explained. "They told me they found nothing of note when they returned and claimed all they did was lead their horses to a river. But there was blood on their swords and they tried to not let me see it." He paused and took a deep breath. "They sat by the fire after I said I'd go to sleep. And when I went to get more candles from the supply room a bit later, I heard them speak of a fight."

Thoros' brow furrowed with concern, but maybe this was not as bad as Beric thought. "They might have found a few stray lions and thought it better to not mention it, so you wouldn't worry over nothing," he said, but Beric once more shook his head.

"No," he quietly replied. "Of the seven men, only three had come back. If they wanted me to not worry, they wouldn't have 'left some to look after the horses'. Nor would they have omitted the report of a fight they had won."

Thoros slowly nodded. "What do you think really happened?" he asked.

Beric sighed. "They mentioned a sept and teaching a lesson about worshipping false gods," he said. "I recall we saw a group of settlers led by a septon a few weeks ago, half a day's ride away. And as much as it pains me, I think our men attacked them instead of offering aid."

Thoros closed his eyes and leaned his head against Beric's. "Why would they do that?" he asked, though he knew Beric had no answer.

"Does it matter?" Beric replied and Thoros shook his head.

"There's no good reason," he gave back. "We have all we need from the Freys and the Lord has never once asked us to fight nonbelievers."

Beric nodded. "We'll ride out to the settlement by first light, just to make sure. If it's no longer there, those men will be hanged." His voice had turned sombre and firm in intent.

"They will," Thoros said and put his arm over Beric. He kissed his temple, then closed his eyes.

It would be their last night in this cavern, in their sea of candles, surrounded by the safety of fire and light. In here, the nights felt like they were no longer separate beings, but two lives joined together as one by their god. As Thoros drifted to sleep, he held close onto his knight of summer, to the hope his flame would keep them warm in darker days under the sky.

That night, Thoros dreamt of light. Of the welcoming shine from the windows of houses. Of wide fields of snow, shimmering in the light of the winter's pale sun. Of flames burning strong on horizons, lightening up the sky, as their guides through the night.

Looking back, Thoros found no answer to the nagging question. _Where have we gone wrong?_ Back when the two dozen survivors of Mummer's Ford had converted to R'hllor, he would never have imagined he'd execute any of these men one day. If someone had told him they'd betray the Brotherhood, he would have laughed at the absurdity of that idea. Even when things looked grim, even when the men were tired and hungry, they didn't stray from their chosen path. They had trust in R'hllor to provide and lately, the Red God had been in a damn generous mood.

Yet the settlement had been plundered and the people lay dead, scattered around the unfinished structure of their sept. _Why?_ There was no reason for this. Compared to the hardships the Brotherhood had gone through in the past, they lived a life of pure splendor. They had more than enough to feed, clothe and arm their own men and support the efforts of the commoners to prepare for the arrival of winter. It was certainly not hunger that inspired the betrayal.

Thoros knew, some Red Priests favored a more zealous approach when it came to conversions, but he had never taught this to anyone. R'hllor had patiently looked away while his priest fought and drank with followers of old and new gods and anything inbetween. R'hllor didn't even mind that his champion hadn't believed in him, had brought Beric back though he still paid lip service to the Seven. R'hllor certainly took no offense by the presence of a sept in the woods.

The three men he no longer called brothers hadn't given Thoros any answers either. They didn't even seem surprised when they were seized and led to be executed. Instead, it was Thoros and Beric who ended up being surprised.

Once more, the wrong Clegane had crossed their path and this time, Thoros did find some kind of humor in it. It was enough to lessen the pain of having to hang their former brothers. These traitors had not only betrayed their commanders, they had also insulted and besmirched their god. It added a layer of poetic justice to let Clegane kick the crates under two of them; an executioner found innocent by the god they betrayed.

And it was the second time Clegane was more interested in killing the same people Thoros and Beric were after than them. The first time they had met, Clegane had called the Brotherhood out for not killing his brother, who he more than clearly wished dead. This time, he had already done half the work, had brought the rest of the treacherous scouts to justice and was only looking to do the same to the rest of the pack.

When they sat by the fire, sharing a meal with their former foe, Thoros let go of the last grudge he held. Strange how the tables had turned. Clegane had been with the settlers and helped building their sept. He had become one of the commoners the Brotherhood tried to protect, not yet another pillager taking the little weaker men had left. Maybe R'hllor had been right to not condemn him, if that's where his path had led him. But the will of the Lord was not what made Thoros change his mind. It was Clegane mentioning that a girl tried to kill him and got away. Thoros didn't ask, but it fed all the hopes he had harbored; Lord Stark's daughter hadn't been captured by the lions or Freys. Maybe she was not with her fat friend, but it counted for something that she was last seen alive.

At midday, Beric had managed to talk Clegane into travelling together, join forces to fight the great war in the North. Clegane certainly didn't seem pleased by the company, but something Beric said resonated with him. Maybe it was the appeal to a warrior, a man who had no talent for anything but the sword. Maybe it was the prospect of redemption for crimes he regretted and would not find another god to pass judgement on. Or maybe it was the cold, harsh reality that he had reached the end of the rope and there was no other place left to go. Whichever the reason, Clegane left with them when they rode North, alongside the river, to where the rest of their men had set up for the night.

They stopped by nightfall, a day's ride away from their former home in the Hollow Hill. When the Boltons had still ruled the ruins of Harrenhal, a group of settlers had began building a watermill here, but it had never been finished. The walls of the building were brittle and broken, the attempt at a roof had been blown off by a storm. The remains still provided some shelter and the place was far from the well travelled roads. A fire was burning in what had been meant to become a yard, surrounded by a short stone wall, half overgrown by vines and by weeds.

Thoros sat near the fire, leaned against a more stable part of the wall and nursed a bottle of wine. Across the fire, Clegane lay dozing under a cloak taken from the hanged traitors, after shutting down any attempt at a conversation.

"I can't find the damn beast."

Beric sounded annoyed when he stepped over the wall, sat down next to Thoros and reached for the bottle. Thoros let him have it and looked around in confusion. "You were out hunting this late? Why?" Beric took a pull from the wine, then gave the bottle back to Thoros.

"No, I just wanted to shoo away the damn bird that keeps screaming, because I have every intention to get sleep tonight." Thoros chuckled and listened to the sounds of the evening, until he heard what Beric meant; the sorrowful call of an owl.

"I always thought you'd like it," he said. "At least it didn't bother you before." Beric glared at him and inched closer, until he was close enough to share Thoros' cloak.

"What makes you think I like being kept up by impertinent birds?" he asked.

Thoros shrugged. "Figured it might jug your memory and remind you of home," he gave back and drank from his wine.

Beric regarded him quizzically. "We've been gone for only a day," he said after a moment. "I'm not homesick already. And I doubt this is the same bird that lived near the Hill."

Thoros shook his head and put his arm around Beric's shoulder. "Probably not," he agreed. "But I didn't mean the Hollow Hill. I meant Blackhaven."

Beric still looked puzzled, then briefly annoyed when the owl called again. "What part of my life has escaped me now?" he sighed and leaned his head against Thoros'.

"Stormclaw, my lord," Thoros replied with a chuckle. "Your childhood pet."

Beric gestured for the bottle again. "Stormclaw," he quietly repeated, trying to remember what that name meant to him. "That sounds familiar..." He thought a while longer, then sighed in defeat and drank from the wine.

Thoros reached for his belt, to get his rum flask; Beric didn't seem to be willing to return the bottle of wine. "You were six or seven," he began. "Your uncle visited Blackhaven, to go hunting with your father. He had brought his falconer and several of his famed birds." Beric slowly nodded and regarded the wine bottle.

"Aye, that sounds like something my uncle would do."

He didn't sound very convinced and let Thoros continue. "The little lord was impressed by the falcons and hawks and begged his father to be taken to the hunt, and his father said no, the little lord is too young. And because you were a stubborn little lord, you spent the days until your father returned searching for birds, to go on a hunt on your own."

Beric let the bottle sink and turned to Thoros, with an almost reproachful glance. "And I found a damn owl?" he concluded. Thoros couldn't help but snicker at the dismissive reaction; when Beric had told him about his pet, he had been quite proud of the find.

"Aye, you found a mountain owl fledgling, abandoned by its parents, under the roof of the stables. It wasn't quite a hawk or a falcon, but it was a bird of prey all the same." He opened the rum flask with his teeth and took a pull. "When your father and uncle returned, you showed them your find and insisted to keep it and train it. I guess your father couldn't stand seeing your heart bleed into a puddle, so he agreed."

Beric shot him a snide glance, but there was a smile on his lips. "Maybe I was a gifted negotiator," he said, playfully daring.

"Aye, now that you mention it, that's how the tale went," Thoros replied, trying to keep a straight face. "Of course, I was joking. I wouldn't dream of implying you're too good for this world." Beric gave him a playful frown and a nudge, then leaned back against Thoros' shoulder and drank the rest of the wine.

"Your uncle told you how to feed your soon-to-be mighty hunter, and left you some instructions how to train it with bait," Thoros picked up the tale. "You named it Stormclaw, and the bird turned out to have one thing in common with you. It was too stubborn to die. It grew bigger and stronger and you didn't give up on the lessons and..."

Beric smirked when he interrupted: "And I showed them all, when Stormclaw brought back the biggest prey from the hunt?"

Thoros shook his head. "No," he sighed, both amused and regretful. "All it ever caught was squirrels and rats. It was a dumb pet, but I'm sure it had a good heart."

Beric's frown returned and he quietly groaned when the owl in the forest called once again. "You could have made up a more satisfying end for that tale," he said.

Thoros laughed and ruffled Beric's hair. "I'm a better liar than you, but I don't have to flaunt it," he gave back.

"That's not even an 'end' for the tale."

That was Clegane's voice and both Thoros and Beric looked over to him in surprise.

"Well, I guess not," Thoros admitted when Clegane sat up.

"So how does it end? Where's that dumb pet now?" he asked, not sounding like he really cared. But at least Clegane tried to feign interest and that was a start to break the ice between him and his new companions.

"I don't know," Thoros replied. "Beric never told me." Clegane's eyes wandered to Beric, waiting for an answer and all he got was a shrug.

"I don't know either," Beric said. "Death takes a toll. Each time I come back, I remember less of my..."

"Don't blame me for forgetting your dumb owl," Clegane interrupted harshly. "I didn't ask for a trial by combat. I didn't want to kill you. That's all on you and your cunt of a god."

Thoros and Beric exchanged a brief, dumbfounded glance. "I don't blame you," Beric then replied. "I don't know what memory I lost with which death. I..." He broke off when the owl's cry echoed again through the forest and Beric just sighed.

"I guess we all have to live without knowing how the story of Stormclaw ends," Thoros tried to conclude the conversation.

"The bird died. That's how all stories end," Clegane plainly stated and laid back down.

"What will we do about you once winter arrives?"

Beric sounded amused when Thoros crawled under their furs, almost forced his arm under Beric's head and pulled him close like a child held onto a favorite toy.

"It's not the cold," Thoros replied, speaking Valyrian, though no-one was nearby to eavesdrop. "I'm just less quick than you to trust a man who already killed you one time before."

Beric groaned quietly and tried to escape the tight hug. "Feels like you're after my life," he gave back and Thoros reluctantly let go. "Clegane is a changed man," Beric said after a deep breath and a snide glance. "Why would he bite the hand that feeds?" Thoros let him turn on his back, but pulled him closer again as soon as Beric had found a more comfortable position.

"I agree that the Hound changed," he said. "But he didn't forget that you ruined his streak."

Beric now chuckled and shook his head. "There is no need to worry," he replied. "Clegane left the Hound behind a long time ago." Thoros nodded, but he still didn't look convinced. "Thoros, please, have some trust in the Lord." Beric's voice was softer now and carried more concern of his own. "He set us all on the same path. He'll have his reasons."

Thoros shot a glance to the fire, burning bright not too far from their sleeping place. "Aye, I just wish he'd reveal them for once," he said. "Or just confirm this _is_ part of his plan and not sheer coincidence." He turned back to Beric, caught by surprise when he felt a kiss on his cheek.

"I'm no minstrel or poet," Beric quietly said, his words soft and serious now. "I joke when you worry instead of telling you I appreciate the concern, and maybe it's time I say it without jest. Even in my darkest hour, there's one thing I always remember; that I will be safe with you. As long as you are by my side, I have nothing to fear. Not the winter to come, not the darkness, not death." He paused, then added: "And not Clegane. Believe me, we have nothing to fear from him."

And then winter came.

It did nothing to thaw Clegane's icy demeanor, but he hadn't packed his few belongings and walked off with them in the night. Beric was right, this was not the man they had crossed paths with a few years ago anymore. Thoros' suspicions had faded, though he was still surprised every time Clegane came back after leaving their camp to hunt, scout or gather supplies.

The longer they travelled together, the more Thoros came to think that maybe, it was really the Lord's will to have them fight side by side. The roads and paths lead them closer to the Twins and Clegane never hesitated when it came to a fight. Frey soldiers, stray lions, small bands of brigands, he cut them down all the same. The one thing that stood out among chattier brothers was that Clegane didn't talk much and if he did, his words were as sharp as his sword. It didn't stop Beric from trying to get through to him, find the pieces of a broken man that could be put back together, and just to humor him, Thoros tried as well.

The Brotherhood was headed for a small cave that had been chosen to be their shelter for the night. Thoros and his grumpy new companion were riding ahead after Beric had fallen back to talk to the scouts.

"So which of you is Renly?" Clegane unexpectedly turned to Thoros; this was one of the few times a conversation had been started by him.

"None of the brothers has the blood of a king, for all I know," Thoros replied with a shrug. "So nobody, I guess." He saw Clegane shot a brief glance over his shoulder, to Beric behind them.

"Don't play dumb, priest," he barked back. "If I really gave a fuck about that, I would be long gone."

Thoros raised his eyebrows. "So you're just curious? Now _that_ is something new."

Clegane shrugged and turned his eyes back to the road. "Any other day, you just can't shut your trap," he said. "Yet the one time I'm bored out of my mind after a week without fights, you're suddenly as coy as a princess."

Thoros smirked and offered Clegane his rum, but it was swiftly rejected. "Just a peculiar topic you picked," he replied. "And I fear it's not as entertaining as you hope. It's closer to brotherly love than..." He broke off when Clegane's gaze, now sparkling with anger, immediately jumped back to him. "Well, maybe that was a poor choice of words," Thoros admitted.

"So you don't fuck him," Clegane concluded dryly.

Thoros had to stifle his laughter and shook his head. "When I said 'brotherly', I didn't mean it like a Lannister would," he gave back and for a split second, he thought to see a hint of a smirk on Clegane's face.

"Well, you're right then. That's not too entertaining," Clegane replied. For a while, he remained silent, but boredom won in the end. "So what are you whispering to him in foreign tongues at night? Some horseshit your god told you?"

Thoros was about to reply, but Beric returned, pulling his horse between his priest and Clegane. "Some men fear fire, and some fear the dark," he said firmly. "Like you, I have felt a touch that now frightens me. Thoros stays close to keep the darkness away." Thoros was taken aback by the bluntness of his confession; Beric had never said it out loud until now. Clegane stared at him for a moment, but didn't reply. "And I hope one day, you will find a friend who makes your fears go away," Beric added. Now Clegane huffed and gestured for the rum, and Thoros handed it over.

"Fuck friends," Clegane declared before he took a pull from the flask. "We're going North. Snow doesn't burn."


	9. Beyond The Light

"You can't put a flask on a sigil," Beric said, amused and in disbelief Thoros had even suggested it. "You should make it a flaming sword. You had one even before the Lord let you ignite it with prayer. That is what people will remember you for."

"Oh, sure, and they would mock me and call me 'the Predictable Knight'." Thoros laughed and took a swig from his rum. "They'd also think of _you_ now, and I don't think it's a good foundation for a house to make our marriage that public after all those years."

"And a flask would be less predictable?" Beric snickered and reached for his ale. "A flaming sword would at least not look silly. And my house already has a sigil. I don't think there would be any confusion."

"A flaming sword would not go well with my words," Thoros explained, sounding as serious as his inebriation allowed. "There needs to be a certain synergy between a sigil and the words of a house."

"You have a point. 'We toast to R'hllor', those _are_ silly words for a house," Beric said. "That doesn't make either choice better though."

"Aye, 'It shall be done' sounds so much smarter." Thoros drank from his flask and ignored Beric's glare nonchalantly. " _What_ shall be done? It's such a vague phrase and not really memorable."

"The defense of the Boneway," Beric replied. "That was the task the Storm King gave my ancestors and..."

"There is no Storm King anymore," Thoros interrupted. "R'hllor will always be around. I'm just planning ahead for a very long lived bloodline with my sigil and words."

Beric laughed and drank from his ale. "Maybe it is better for Westeros that Ser Jorah got knighted after the battle of Pyke. If you were to found a house, not a soul in the Seven Kingdoms would keep a straight face. Well, maybe House Seaworth, but only because they'd be glad that the realms had a new fool to laugh at."

Thoros raised his eyebrows, slowly reached for Beric's ale, took it from his hand and drank it, never once breaking eye contact. "You think me a fool because I don't see sigils and words as the most serious thing in the world?" he asked after putting the empty flask back in Beric's hand.

"I didn't say it would change _my_ opinion of you." Beric shrugged. "But your reputation among the noble houses is a two-edged sword as it is..."

"Fine, I'll be serious then. I wouldn't want to besmirch your good name, Lord Outlaw of the Hollow Hill. How could I even dream of bringing dishonor to you for keeping such foolish company?" Thoros chuckled and offered his flask to Beric. "If I was knighted and had to take a _serious_ sigil, I would make it a..."

That conversation had taken place a hundred years ago, somewhere in the Riverlands, somewhen in summer. Or was it in fall? _What would have been on Thoros' sigil?_ Beric tried to remember, to recall just that one word Thoros had said. Did he agree to the flaming sword in the end? Was it the fiery heart of R'hllor? Something resembling the sigil of Myr?

The sky above Eastwatch held no answers, nor did the endless gray fields of snow it stretched across. All that was out there, inside the castle and everywhere in the world was the winter; harsher, colder and more unforgiving than ever before. The sun was hiding behind thick clouds, piling up in the gray sky as far as the eye could see. It made no difference, not anymore. When the clouds had briefly broken open, the sun had been weak, a pale shadow of its summer glory, void of true light and robbed of all of its warmth.

Beric stepped away from the rail of the lookout, to just walk along the path on top of the wall and then let his gaze get lost in the distance, in the gray sky over the North, with more piles of gray clouds.

"What happens if you do kill that cunt of my brother?"

Clegane spoke with his mouth full, his elbows propped up on the tavern table, fat dripping from the roasted chicken all over his hands. Except for the inevitable complaints about the weather, he had been in a good mood all day, measured by his usual demeanor.

Beric snickered and shrugged. "I doubt the Lord of Light cares that much about your brother that anything notable would happen," he replied. "If I killed him, he'd just be dead. Men I kill don't tend to come back."

Clegane huffed and kept chewing, then he swallowed and said: "Don't get your hopes up. Better men than you have tried to kill him and failed."

Thoros put the mugs with the ale on the table and sat down next to Beric. "Bet none of those 'better men' got a second attempt and could learn from their mistakes."

"His only mistake was to get killed first," Clegane gave back, glaring at Beric, and reached for his ale. "Doesn't take years in the Citadel to learn from that."

Thoros shrugged and pulled Beric's pie over to try it, then he looked back to Clegane and said... He said... Thoros said... _What did he say?_ It was probably something witty, or surprisingly profound or maybe it was a joke or...

Beric's eye wandered, across snowy treetops and hills, frozen ponds and small icy rivers. They had had this conversation a hundred years ago, in a tavern that had to be somewhere down there.

Only a handful of brothers had made it this far on the long way through the North. That tavern had been the last roof over their heads before a group of wildlings had found them, a mile South of the wall. How could it feel like it happened so long ago? Slowly, Beric went down the wooden steps; maybe a closer look at the frozen lands would reveal the sight of the tavern and help to recall.

"You don't think Stannis Baratheon would have made a good king?"

Beric poked the fire in the Hollow Hill's main room with a stick. A raven had just brought the news of Stannis' defeat at Winterfell and confirmed the rumors from taverns, saying the fourth of five kings was dead.

"I guess I should think so," Thoros replied, returning from the supply cavern with wine. "After all, he was the rightful heir to King Robert, if what Ned Stark discovered is true." He stepped over the grain sacks that served as chairs by the fire, sat down and handed Beric the wine. "And I don't doubt that. I've seen the kids in King's Landing a few times. Didn't look like Robert at all, but an awful lot like the Kingslayer. Not that Stannis looked anything like Robert, or Renly for that matter, but there was no dispute over his lineage."

"He served the one true god as well," Beric added and opened the bottle. "He'd have been the first king of Westeros to be blessed by R'hllor. Sometimes I wonder how that might have changed the course of history."

Thoros laughed and pushed Beric's arms away from his lap to rest his head there. "Funny, that would have completed the mission I was given when the High Priest sent me here," he said and leaned back. "I was told to convert 'the Baratheon King'. Nobody ever said anything about 'Robert'."

Beric raised an eyebrow and chuckled, looking down to his priest. "You wouldn't have converted him though. I don't think that counts as completing your mission."

"Details, details." Thoros reached for the wine and lifted his head just enough to drink when Beric put the bottle in his hand. "I don't think he'd have made a good king though," he said and gave the wine back. "I've met the man and immediately forgot him. And it's not because I was drunk at the time."

"There were times when you were not drunk?" Beric chuckled. "I find that hard to believe, but I know what you mean. Out of the three Baratheon brothers, he always struck me as the least kingly one."

"He was a good swordsman and a born soldier," Thoros said. His glance followed the bottle over his head when Beric drank. "He just didn't inspire anyone to anything and I think that's what a king should do. Being a good swordsman is not a bad start, but it's not everything." He still watched the bottle when Beric lowered it again and added: "Though, Stannis was better on the other side of a siege, considering what we heard from the North."

Beric gave him the wine back when he noticed Thoros' eyes laid claim to the bottle. "It is hard to say which of those five kings would have been the lesser evil on the Iron Throne," he said. "None of them stood out as the best for the people, be it based on their past actions or their motivation to go to war."

"Two didn't even seem to want it." Thoros tried to drink without moving too much, then gave up and lifted his head just enough to meet the bottle. "The Stark boy only wanted the North and the washed up Greyjoy that's left now doesn't seem interested in going further South either."

"If all five of them had tried to claim the Iron Throne, and there had been no other contenders, which one do you think would have been best for the realms?" Beric asked, watching Thoros' laborious efforts to drink with amusement.

For a while, Thoros thoughtfully regarded the bottle, took another long swig of wine, then let it sink and finally said: "It might surprise you, but all things considered, I'd say I'd have crowned..."

Beric woke from his trance when the memory escaped him and he found himself inside the castle, on a hallway leading to Eastwatch's common room. _Who had been Thoros' pick?_ Was it Stannis in the end, because the other options were even less kingly? Was it Renly, just to get another shot at his mission, another Baratheon king he could try to convert? Maybe Robb Stark, as honorable as his late father, for the poetic justice that would have led him to the throne?

The common room was empty; the castle was undermanned and the wildlings stationed here had no time to take breaks. They were busy on lookouts, with more fortifications and preparing the captured creature for transport to King's Landing. But there was a fire burning in the big hearth and Beric entered the room, slowly walked over to the flames; just a habit, no desire to be closer to god.

There were no images, no visions, just a pile of logs burning quietly on a black patch of soot. For a while, Beric just stood there, in front of the fire, with too many questions and not enough words. This spot was probably the warmest for several miles in every direction, but he had given up to stubbornly ignore the cold a hundred years ago.

"Is he now with you?" Beric finally whispered, speaking Valyrian, though R'hllor never cared. The flames remained silent, did not even flare. "That was not what you promised last summer," Beric quietly said. He knew there'd not be an answer, but he could not yet look away. "We were divine, you told us, sons of fire and light. You didn't say one of us were to be left behind. That was not the deal we made. We were supposed to walk this path together to the end." He kept watching the flames, calm and indifferent, as if god had never been here. Beric sighed, resigned to the silence. "I have never truly understood you and maybe I never will," he quietly added. "But I thank you for not making him bear this pain."

"Thought you'd want to have this."

It was not the Red God who answered; that voice belonged to Clegane. Beric took a deep breath, a half-hearted attempt to gather himself, then he turned around. Clegane stood by the long table, Thoros' flask in hand. The sight made Beric choke and so he just nodded, unable to speak. Clegane shrugged and put the flask on the table, then went back to the door to leave. Beric stood there, his eye fixed on the flask, not able to move for what felt like years. Then the flask was in his hand when he continued to wander the cold hallways of Eastwatch, hollow and lost; now truly a ghost.

"Why do people even live here?" Thoros asked over the snoring of Clegane, sleeping on the cell's only bench. "People must have known how cold it gets out there before they decided to build their huge castles." He tried to pull the cloak tighter together and Beric stopped pacing to sit down on the floor next to his priest.

"At least the lands are fertile in summer," he said and held his arm out for Thoros, who quickly moved closer to huddle against him. "Nothing grows on the Iron Isles, yet someone thought it a good idea to put a castle there, too."

"I'd trade all of those kingdoms for a bottle of fire wine," Thoros sighed. "Even the nice ones, like the Reach or Dorne." After a brief pause, he shot a quick glance to Beric. "Or the Stormlands. It's nice there, too."

"Compared to this cell, every other place in Westeros is nice," Beric said and leaned his head back against the wall. "The only place colder than this is the darkness beyond." His priest hugged him tighter and Beric regretted making the comparison. Thoros wasn't quite himself when he was sober, when the rum didn't help to silence the worry. "Imagine we carried out the Lord's mission, our journey was over, all said and done," Beric tried to change the subject. "Where would you want us to go? Any place in Westeros or Essos, if you..."

"Want _us_ to go?" Thoros chuckled. "After all this time, you still wouldn't have enough of me? You wouldn't want to return to Blackhaven, claim back your lands and titles and...? " Beric gently shook his head and Thoros broke off.

"We were friends long before R'hllor took note of either of us," Beric said. "Why would our paths be divided once all this is over?" He glanced down to Thoros and put a quick kiss on his temple. "I can't imagine my priest would want a quiet life in a castle. And I'd rather see all the lands and cities you told me about, too."

Now Thoros smiled and looked up. "Well, if you put it that way, I know where we should go first," he began and freed his arm from the tangle of cloaks to reach up and brush frozen breath out of Beric's beard. "You'd love this place. I've been there only once, but I always wanted to go back one day. It's called..."

Beric's hand clung to the bars of the now empty cell, his head rested against the cold metal. He didn't know how he had ended up down here; his mind had been far away when he walked down all those stairs. _Where did Thoros want to take him?_ Maybe the Reach or Dorne? Or was it his home in Essos, the Free City of Myr? It could have been a joke and Thoros named his favorite tavern or the Hollow Hill. The conversation had taken place right here in this cell, a hundred years ago, so far away. Beric stood there and listened for any words that still echoed and found nothing but silence among the cold walls.

Slowly, his hand sank down on the bars, felt for the door and found it unlocked. It opened with a long quiet squeak and a rattle, just wide enough to let Beric step in. And then he stood there again, not moving, staring across the cell to the corner where they had sat together, a hundred years ago. No ghost, no scent lingered. All that moved there was snow, blown in by the wind through the small window. Snowflakes were wafting across the stone floor like ashes, dancing in the air to then slowly fade. Beric's eye tried to pick up fragments of memories from them, answers and comfort, and yet there was nothing; it was only snow.

"Thoros, promise me," he heard himself say, his words carrying fear for the first time in years. "Promise me you'll make it through the night. If we only hold out until morning, we..."

"I wish I could, my lord," Thoros answered, so calm, so painfully honest. "But if the Red God takes me, I promise, I will wait for you beyond the dark of the night."

When Beric fell asleep next to Thoros, with whispered prayers on his lips, he tried with all his strength to remember. Tried to hold onto the days when they burned brighter than suns, to banish the fright of never feeling this fire again.

Down here in the cells of Eastwatch, there was no more fear. The world had gone dark; a neverending night full of terrors, and there was no light to guide him to the bright shores of dawn.

Beric made the few steps across the room to the wall, then he sat down in the corner. The flask he still held was as empty as he felt and the void it contained was now all he had. _It would have made a fine sigil_ , he thought, cradling the flask in arms. Every breath felt like drowning in the absence of light and the faint smell of rum was the one anchor he could find. There was no flame that could listen down here, but Beric did not direct his words at R'hllor.

"How do I live without you?" he asked, his voice a broken whisper that only a ghost would be able to hear.

He leaned his head back against the wall and tried to remember, something, anything, that the dark had not taken. Just a small shred of hope to cling to; only enough to go on until R'hllor would release him and finally let him find rest from this life. He closed his eye, awaiting the darkness and sleep's embrace and in the emptiness, he found the echo of a whisper that replied to his plea.

"Dream of fire, my lord."

That night, Beric dreamt of fire. Of once hot burning stars turning to ashes; a last desperate glow in a vast empty sky. Of a flame in the darkness, a last spark of glory, that slowly burned out and died. Of hearts blazing in fire; one last moment of radiance, one last moment in light.

Beric woke from this dream, breathing, but not truly alive. In the absence of light, he finally felt it; the hole in his heart that Thoros no longer filled. He was a husk now in which his soul echoed; a shell to carry out the Lord's purpose, no more. All of him that still had been alive had died in the snow, a hundred years ago. He had to have blind faith, just one last time; pay back the time he had borrowed to the Red God. Once he'd have paid this debt, his soul would be free from this un-life and R'hllor would guide him back to Thoros, make him whole again, beyond the dark of the night. Would finally let both of them find rest, forever sleeping in light.


End file.
